


The Echo of a Gunshot

by Denzer



Category: BlacKkKlansman (2018)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Blow Jobs, Dark Scene's Coming Up, Don't worry, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Flip Needs a Hug, Fluff and Angst, Gunshot Wounds, I don't know how this got so traumatic all of a sudden, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, KKK, Look what I did to poor Luke, Oral Sex, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Racism, Period-Typical Sexism, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, So much smut, Soft Flip, Undercover Missions, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Wild Swings Between Dark and Cutesy, sad fucking, the Author Needs a Hug, you don't die
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:28:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 31,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23215525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Denzer/pseuds/Denzer
Summary: Flip Zimmerman is sweet on you,the tough crime reporter whose life he saved.Lucky for him, you're going to save him right back.
Relationships: Flip Zimmerman/Reader, Flip Zimmerman/You
Comments: 21
Kudos: 130





	1. Open Your Eyes

In the movies, you've seen people blown off their feet by a gunshot. But when the bullet hits you, you only feel sharp pressure, no real pain.

You stay on your feet, bring your hand to your side, just under your ribs, and it comes away with a splotch of red in the centre of your palm. You look at it. Why can't you feel anything?

They are talking now. You pay close attention because that is what you do, what you have always done.

The taller man is panicked.

“Donny, what the fuck you go and do?”

Donny... you know that name.

The shorter one, Donny, is running his hand through his hair, calm.

“Shut the fuck up. Get in the car, we're gonna be late.”

“What we gonna do about _her_?”

You don't look when the short one turns back to you, but you see him shrug in your peripheral vision.

“That situation's gonna take care of itself, now isn't it?”

Somehow, you are on your knees. When had that happened?

They close the trunk and your view of the weapons inside is cut off. They are leaving you here. The short one lifts his coat to stow his pistol in the waistband at his lower back.

You scan the car as you sink back onto the dirty concrete floor. Your legs are at a strange angle but you can't feel them anyway. As the car screeches away, you check your watch. Four fifteen in the afternoon. It's hot, stifling in the abandoned hangar. The air here does not move.

There are iron beams high overhead and a corrugated roof beyond. There are birds in the rafters. You watch them. Time slows. You can hear the swoop of your own heartbeat in your ears. It slows too. The next time you glance down at your body, your blouse and jeans are covered in blood. You feel it pooling under the hand you've pressed to the wound, sand and grit from the floor mix with the sticky liquid in your palm.

You're going to die. You're going to bleed to death and by the time someone calls in your remains, you wonder if there will be enough left of it to identify. You take your bloodied hand and try to scratch your name in the dirt.

No-one knows where you are. Your boss would never have let you go if you'd told him what you were planning. So you'd told no-one.

You'd followed a tip, a tip that told you a klan meeting was taking place right here. You'd snapped the exchange, photo's of two suitcases changing hands. They'd opened one and you'd adjusted your position so you could get a shot of the inside. And now you're going to die. All for a front-page story you'll never get to write.

 _That reckless ambition will get you killed_. You hear Harold's grainy voice in your head. You should have listened to your boss. Forty years in and _he'd_ never been shot.

There is the faint sound of a car pulling up. Doors closing softly. Footsteps.

They're back.

“Clear on the left! Check the hangar, I'll take the strip!”

They're back to finish the job. This is how you'll die.

The tall one looms over you, dark hair falling into his face. He'd taken off his jacket. Did he change his shirt? You cling to the details, as you always do, but they are fading as you catch them.

“Ron! Got a live one here. Radio for a truck, asap.”

His voice is different than before, deeper, softer, but he has bent to one knee beside you and the gun in his hand is all that holds your attention. He touches your neck.

You feel strength you didn't know you had left, adrenaline.

You reach for the gun, try to pull it away from him. It feels like it should have made more of an impact, for all the effort it took to lift your arm. But the gun barely moves in his hand and the fingers that had been pressed to the side of your neck come gently around your wrist and hold it away. He tucks the gun into a holster under his arm.

In the seconds it takes him to secure it there, you think of all the things that could happen to you before he kills you. Terror is a physical thing now. It squirms.

You think of that poor dead girl you photographed in Palmer Park last year. Or the homeless kid you'd interviewed for your Street Girls feature a few weeks back. Unspeakable things happen every day in this city. Now, they will happen to you.

You let the terror wash over you and then you grit your teeth, making sure to hold his eye. You might be defenceless, immobile and bleeding, but you're not going down quietly.

“Fuck you, you red-neck fucking Nazi.”

You wanted to shout but it came out a whisper. You sound like a scared kid, even to yourself. So much for the tough crime reporter you thought you were.

He is looking at you, eyes so dark they are almost black. His brows are drawn in confusion but then his whole face softens and he gently squeezes the hand you tried to take the gun with. The hand he is still holding. It dwarfs yours.

“It's OK,” he tells you, and his voice is low and deep, “I'm an undercover cop.”

You blink up at him.

“I'm gonna show you my badge now, OK?”

His hand pauses on the way to his shirt pocket. You flinch because your blood is streaked across his long fingers, but you nod your assent anyway.

He pulls the badge and flashes it at you. A small, reassuring smile dimples his cheek. You squeeze your eyes closed. Relief... Embarrassment. What had you called him?

“Shit,” you whisper. When you look at him, your eyes are starting to sting. Tears of relief, pricking like traitors, “Sorry. I thought they came back.”

He nods and places a huge, warm hand over yours where it covers your wound.

“Landing field's clear. You check the back?” comes a distant voice. He looks up in the direction the voice came from and you watch the skin stretch over the hard line of his jaw.

When he turns back to you, a harsh, calculating look disappears, replaced with softness again.

“I'm gonna take a look at this now, alright?”

You nod. You still can't feel anything. Shock, blissful shock.

He lifts your hand and frowns at what he finds beneath. Then he shifts and reaches gingerly under your shoulder, the side of your hip, lifting you slightly off the floor. He skims over your back.

Dimly, you're aware that he's checking for an exit wound but the movement has sparked all that pain that you hadn't been feeling till now and you clamp your mouth shut so as not to cry out.

He moves you gently back to the floor and you stare at the ceiling, breathing deeply until the swell of pain subsides.

“Ron – you got an ETA on that truck?”

There is urgency in his voice. You zero in on his face. He doesn't smile.

“It's OK, it's not so bad.”

You can't help it. You laugh, then wince because laughing hurts.

“You're a pretty shitty liar for an undercover cop,” you tell him and his face registers surprise before he smiles at you, incredulous. The movement of his mouth creases his face.

“I guess so,” he says and then his eyes harden, “Gotta put pressure on this now, OK?”

He winces as he presses a hand over your torn side. It feels like white-hot fire in your midsection. Your eyes roll back. You dip into the pain and it drags you under.

You're making a noise when you come back to yourself a second later, high pitched and weak. You stop immediately.

“Sorry,” you whisper and you can't decipher the look he gives you.

“Abby?” It's the other voice.

You recognize it and turn your head toward him.

“Ron?”

You manage a small smile as he drops to the ground on your other side but he doesn't smile back. His eyes take in the pool of your blood on the floor. He reaches for the radio at his shoulder and turns his mouth to it.

“Jimmy, we need that ambulance, right now.”

When he looks at you again, his eyes are wide.

“Shit, Abby. What happened?”

You shake your head. How did you not think of it until now? Too caught up in your own fear.

“What time is it?” you ask Ron, because you're too weak to raise your own wrist.

“Twenty-five to five,” he tells you, confused.

You nod but you have to count backward in your head, your brain is getting foggy.

“They left about twenty minutes ago. Two men, both early forties” you begin rattling off a description and he focuses hard, “one about six foot, black leather jacket, white shirt, dark jeans, dark hair -” your eyes flit to the first cop, who's watching you just as hard as his partner is.

“Kinda good-looking,” you continue your statement to Ron, “You know, for a fascist.”

Ron smirks. It's getting harder to breathe but you keep talking anyway.

“Second one's about 5'4, sandy hair, light blue jeans and brown leather jacket, Hawaiian shirt, yellow with blue flowers. Big guy called him Donny”

“Donny Metcalf?” Ron's partner asks. You turn your head to him, it takes more energy than it should.

“I think so, but can't be sure. He was wearing sunglasses... and he shot me...”

You stop to breathe for a second. It's getting really hard to talk but you keep going.

“They headed north in a maroon-colored car. I didn't get the make...” this time you have to stop mid-sentence to drag the air into your lungs and you feel the cop press your shoulder, concern radiating from him.

“You did great, Abby,” Ron tells you because he thinks you're finished. You give him a smug smile as the air fills your burning lungs.

“I got the registration though...”

Ron smirks and huffs out a breath in amusement.

“Of course you did, hot-shot.”

You give him the reg and he calls it in.

You turn serious then, thinking of that exchange.

“There's an armoury in their trunk. Think I interrupted a supply run. At least ten rifles, the same of shotguns and a shit tonne of C4. Whatever they're planning, it's big.”

Ron looks at his partner.

“I'll follow them, you wait with Abby for the ambulance?”

You're surprised when he nods, his dark hair falling over his eyes again.

“No!” you tell him and he frowns at you. His hand is still pressed to your side, stemming the flow of your blood.

“He needs back-up,” you explain, “They're heavily armed and, strangely, they're not as fond of Ron as I am.”

Ron laughs but when he stands, he's serious and he's looking at his partner like they're speaking in a silent code.

“Abby,” he calls at you but he's still looking at his partner, “Ambulance will be here soon. All you gotta do is hold up. Flip is gonna be right here. You can trust him.”

You turn to his partner. Flip. Strange name.

“No, really, you have to go with him. I'll be fine.”

Your breath catches in your throat so you have to drag it in over the irony liquid that's pooled in your throat. It's loud and it hurts. Flip lifts you forward until you catch your breath. Your eyes are rolling again and by the time you've settled back to a steady breath, Ron is gone.

Flip shushes you when you try to get him to follow his partner.

“How do you two know each other anyway?” he asks you, trying to get you to relax.

“I wrote a feature on him a few months back. First black cop in Colorado Springs... I got hate-mail for weeks after the print run.”

You think he's going to try to keep you talking but he quietens then. He checks the pulse in your neck again and you tilt your head for him, exposing your throat. Every movement now is slow, like your body is pushing through sludge that's only getting thicker. He meets your eye, watches you as you take slow, rasping breaths. He has a good face, strong features, and you can't seem to find any reason to stop looking at him. His eyes are so dark.

When he takes his hand from your throat, he rubs at his jaw and twists to check for any sign of the ambulance.

You're suddenly cold. Really, really cold. Your teeth start to chatter and Flip swings back to you with an intense stare. The light in the hangar is getting dimmer but you know that can't be right, not in the height of summer. It's too early.

This is it. You're going to die here and you're so scared that the tears leak from the corner of your eyes and run over your temples into your hair. You're shivering. You're not ready.

He unbuttons his shirt with one hand, the other still pressed firmly into your side.

“Flip. I don't want to die,” you tell him in a quiet voice as he shucks himself out of it, a white sleeveless vest beneath. He wraps his shirt around you. It covers you from your neck to mid-thigh but you're still freezing.

“You're not going to,” he says quietly but he can't seem to look at you.

“Lie better,” you tell him and you mean it to be funny but it sounds desperate and then his face is right over yours, so close you can feel his breath on your chin.

“Abby,” he says. He's staring at you, trying to pin you with that dark, urgent gaze, that deep, steady voice, “You're not going to die. Listen.”

You hear it. Sirens. Distant, but there. You close your eyes.

“Abby, open your eyes. Look at me,” he tells you and you do exactly as he says, “Just hold on, I know it hurts, it's just a little longer, you can do this, it's minutes now...”

He keeps talking and you keep listening. You watch the movement of small muscles in his face, under his eye and around his mouth, as he speaks. Expressive little jumps that keep catching your attention. You have the strange urge to tell him that he's beautiful but when you open your mouth you can't find the strength to talk.

It's taking so much out of you to breathe now. It would feel like rest, just to let yourself stop. Your blinking is slow, everything is slow now, and the sound of his voice has an echo that muddles the words.

There's a halo of blue light around him. It flares and disappears over and over. You should recognise it, but you don't. You can't hear anything anymore and there are only flashes of his face, dark eyes and plush lips moving to form words that are lost to you.

Then, there's another face above you and you frown at it, your eyes roving till you find Flip again. He's on his knee by your shoulder, mouth pressed to a hard line. He has taken your outstretched hand, holding it off the floor and running a bloodied thumb over your knuckles, but you can't feel it. You can't feel anything, not even fear.

Your fingers tighten on his and this time, you don't open your eyes.


	2. Groovy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sure, you nearly died but did Flip think you were cute?   
> i.e. This fic gets silly...

Hospitals are not for you. Not by a long-shot. You're itching to leave.

It wasn't so bad at the start. Your old roommate Cassie and most of your friends were there when you woke up. Even your boss had made an appearance, if only to give you a deadline for your perspective piece. But that was over a week ago. Now you begin every morning by asking how long it will be before you're released.

You've scoured the newspapers, read the story over and over again from multiple perspectives with bylines by rival reporters. Most of them never mentioned you were a journalist – apparently being young and female and shot through with a .44 was enough of a description to satisfy most readers.

Ron had trailed them to their safe house. The raid had happened early the next morning. No casualties. You'd kept the article that contained a picture of Flip leading Donny Metcalf in handcuffs, the man who'd shot you, to a waiting car that Ron held open. It was the best-written piece, you reasoned, as you found yourself looking at it during the day.

Night was the worst. Every time you closed your eyes you'd hear it. The shot would ring out and you jerk awake and clench at your bandaged stomach. It was impossible to sleep. You needed something to focus on and all that came to you for comfort was a pair of worried brown eyes and a mouth that was so expressive it tingled in your gut. In the dim light of your room, you could almost hear that deep, baritone voice but you couldn't quite catch the words.

This morning, the doc said you'd have to stay in the hospital for two more days. Then, barring any infection, you can go home. You are elated. Your tiny apartment with its broken faucet and its never-ending lack of hot water has never seemed so appealing.

The nurse tells you that you have a visitor. She seems more excited by this news than she should be and you feel a tug in your belly that you try hard to squash down. You scrape your hair back from your face.

Through the window, he raises a hand in a friendly wave that you return with much less excitement.

“Hey, Ron!”

He comes over to hug you awkwardly, weaving around the flowers he's brought and trying to avoid the blood pressure monitor that's permanently attached to your arm.

“How you doin', girl?”

You raise your hands and indicate around the tiny room.

“How are you at jail-breaks? Wanna help spring me?”

He laughs, then narrows his eyes at the article you've snipped and left on the bedside table. You slap your hand over it, turn it over.

“I've read that Ron Stallworth always gets his man,” you laugh, trying to cover the heat in your cheeks with your hair. He obliges you, telling you as much as he can about the raid without giving you a single detail you hadn't already read.

You feel that same tug in your body every time he mentions his partner and, every time, you push it down. You wish you'd remember if Flip had been wearing a wedding ring... you know, just to know. You're a reporter, details are important to you.

Ron starts to say goodbye and you still haven't thanked him. How do you thank someone for saving your life?

You go quiet and, out of nowhere, you feel like crying. You hadn't actually cried at all since you woke up and you wonder why it's hitting you now. You put your hand over his, widen your eyes to keep the tears at bay.

“Ron,” you say but your voice wobbles so you stop talking. He flips his hand over so he can squeeze yours.

“S'alright, kiddo. You did good. I'm glad you're OK.”

He keeps talking as you swallow the lump in your throat.

“We musta checked with dispatch on your progress thirty times that night. You had us worried. But you pulled through, hotshot.”

You look up at the 'we' but that lump in your throat won't go down now so you stay silent.

Ron stands to leave and kisses your forehead in a gesture that should have been awkward but was instead, ridiculously sweet. You let him get to the door before you call to him.

You literally _cannot_ let him leave without mentioning Flip, so you say the only thing that seems logical and includes the man who's calm voice you hear in the middle of the night when you wake from nightmares.

“Ron, your partner, will you thank him for me? It was kind of him to stay with me till the ambulance got there. It helped, you know?”

He turns to look at you and you watch him struggle to contain a smile.

“Oh, he didn't just stay with you till the ambulance got there. He went right along with you... stayed here in the waiting room all night, till the Chief ordered him in to prep for the raid.”

Your mouth falls open and there is burning in your cheeks.

Ron does smile then. He makes to leave but pokes his head back in a second later.

“Needed to borrow a shirt when he got back.”

_Did he just wink?_

You don't care, you're remembering the seam of a white undershirt against the jut of a long collarbone and your face is puce. Your cold-ass shower is looking better and better.

* * *

Cleared.

You're cleared and you are out of here. You're packing your things, placing a particular newspaper clipping at the bottom of your bag so it doesn't wrinkle, when you hear a cough. It's an awkward announcement from the doorway of your cell/room.

Your fingers grip around the bed frame.

That voice is etched into your blood. You'd know it anywhere. You had clung to it as much as you had to your own shallow breaths.

When you turn, he is leaning against the door frame, hands pushed deep into the pockets of his jeans.

“Hey,” he says and then looks kinda lost. You are so glad he's arrived when you've already showered and changed into your clothes. Your hair is wet and you tug it back from your face.

“Hi...Flip.”

The room is entirely silent and you have forgotten how to speak.

_Fervid, dark eyes; lips forming a word over and over that looks like it could be your name._

You blink the image away and focus hard.

“It's really good to see you. I wanted to thank -”

He cuts you off mid-sentence by straightening up and shaking his head.

“You don't have to do that. We caught the guys based on your intel, so...”

He trails off.

Seriously, you're a journalist. Your livelihood depends on efficient communication. But you cannot think of one goddamn thing to say that's appropriate to this situation. You're pretty sure that _'I cannot stop thinking_ _about your face'_ or, ' _I get weird flash-backs of your body parts'_ isn't going to cut it here. You steel yourself and aim for a smile.

“Ummm, so, I'm leaving today. Free.”

You sound like an idiot but he still lets out a breath he's been holding and smiles back at you. His eyebrows raise up and he seems eager when he blurts out,

“Do you need a ride?”

You can't drive with the stitches. Cassie is picking you up after her shift and you planned to spend the afternoon in the coffee shop a block away.

“You don't have to do that-”

_Oh shit, please contradict me._

“No, I'd love to. I mean...”

He trails off again and you wonder if you should check your stitches right now because there's this giant rolling sensation in your stomach that has got to be a sponge or something they left inside you during surgery.

“Well, sure, that'd be groovy.”

_Fuck._ All the words you learned in college and that's the one you pick? You might have been better off bleeding out on the floor of an abandoned hangar.

But he's smiling and there's a nurse behind him with a wheelchair and a relieved expression. Flip comes into the room to let her in behind him. He holds the door for her as you raise an eyebrow at the wheelchair and grab your crutches.

“Hospital policy, Abby. I gotta wheel you out,” the nurse orders as she points at the chair. She's happier than she should be about seeing you leave but you relent and accept the chair. You're trying to cram your bag and both sticks across your lap when Flip reaches out a hand toward you.

_His fingers, wrapped around yours, reddened to the wrist with your blood._

You flinch.

“I can take those,” he says and his voice is suddenly soft and unwavering. He brushes your hand as he takes the crutches from you. You feel the ghost of his touch the whole way to the front door.

“So let me get this straight,” you ask the nurse at the hospital entrance, “I had to be wheeled out here into the street because it's dangerous for me to walk _inside._ But now I'm out, I gotta get down these steps on my crutches and that's _not_ an issue for you at all?”

The nurse gives you a sardonic grin.

“Bye Abby, we'll miss you.”

She turns away and Flip moves toward you, crutches at the ready. He takes your elbow to steady you, as you position them like you've been shown.

His grip makes you anything but steady.

There are five steps down, concrete and unforgiving. By the second one, you are out of breath and mortified and your cracked ribs are spitting fire across your chest.

Flip stops abruptly and turns to you. When you look up he is squinting hard and he looks like he wants to run.

“Look, I could just...”

He shakes his head hard and then takes your crutches, laying them down along with your bag. When he straightens up, he steps closer to you and holds his arms at a strange angle, looking at your midsection. You realise what he's about to do the second before he bends toward you.

One arm presses high across your back and the other dips behind your knees. His hair brushes your cheek and it smells like woodsmoke and something spice-like and there's this huge amount of heat that's emanating from him. Your head spins with it.

Then he's lifting you, effortless, like you weigh nothing, but at this point, you're so light-headed that you might actually be floating anyway.

You pull yourself together. You're a hardened journalist, godammit.

“Is this OK?” he asks. He's looking at you. His face is incredibly close to yours.

_The blast of a gunshot. Pressure over your hip like someone has poked you hard._

_Open your eyes, Abby. Look at me._

You squeeze your eyes closed and shake your head, ridding yourself of the image.

“I'm OK, I'm OK, I'm OK.”

You're not OK. Your breath comes in short gasps and Flips lifts his head from yours, looking down his long nose at you like he recognises something. Silent, he walks with you down the steps. You feel him breathe steadily against your good side, the side of your body that is pressed to his ribs, as you slow your own breathing.

He doesn't put you down at the bottom of the steps. Instead, he walks with you to his car, parked a little further down the street.

You're sure if you looked around you would see people staring. But you don't look around. Your eyes are glued to his jawline, to the dark hair on his chin, to his full bottom lip, to the smattering of moles on his cheek. He has a scar just above his temple. You are about to ask him how he got it when he stops walking.

He sets you down on the hood of a brown car, steadying you by the shoulders.

“Wait here, Abby.”

When he says your name, your heart gives a little jump and you think those doctors should have let you keep that blood pressure monitor.

You watch him run to get your bag and crutches. From the back, the span of his shoulders looks even wider. You remember the line of his collarbone again, the smooth muscle of his bicep. Your cheeks pink up. You swipe at them as he runs back and dumps your crutches and bag in the trunk.

He opens the door for you and you slide off the hood before he gets any closer, holding the car for support. Flips clicks his tongue, evaluating you.

“I can help...” he says but you shake your head. Your cheeks are pink enough as it is. Any more of this carrying business and they might be stained beetroot permanently.

It takes an age to get yourself seated and Flip can't seem to help himself, taking your elbow as you lower into the passenger seat, easing you down slowly.

When you're settled, he jogs around the car and folds himself in behind the wheel. His head nearly touches the roof. His knees brush the dash on either side of the wheel.

He turns the key and grips the steering wheel in one hand, the other spreading over his thigh. You focus on the length of his fingers, fanned over his jeans. You wish you'd remember how it had felt when he'd held your hand.

When you glance up, he is watching you. There is an amused tilt to his mouth and you whip your head away from him to look out the window.

“Abby?” He waits until you look back at him, “Where do you live?”

Oh, yeah, he'd probably need to know that if he's gonna drive you home. He must think you're the dumbest person alive.

You clear your throat and give him directions to your apartment. His eyes narrow immediately.

“That's kinda a rough neighborhood,” he tells you, looking like he disapproves. You bristle a bit but deicide humour is the best approach.

“Well, you know how they say crime doesn't pay?”

He nods imperceptibly,

“it's even worse for crime reporting...”

His cheek dimples in a soft chuckle and you warn yourself not to stare.

He asks you questions as he drives, tilting his head toward you without taking his eyes off the road.

“So how long you been doing this?”

“Journalism? About four years. I started in college. The Gazette hired me in my final year.”

“I read that piece you wrote on Ron. It was very... complimentary...” he laughs and the sound is a rumble that you feel in your fingertips. You twist your hands together in your lap.

“Yeah, well, Ron's a good guy.”

“You said you got hate mail after it?”

You look at him, sharp. It's hard to remember exactly what you'd told him as you bled out from a gunshot wound and he looks like he's only just now realising that. He changes tack before you answer.

“Did you grow up here? In Colorado Springs?”

“I grew up all over. Foster homes in Austin, State School in Memphis,” you switch accents to show him the diversity of your childhood.

He smiles and you have the overwhelming urge to run your thumb over the line it makes in his cheek. You finally remember to check his hand for a wedding ring and find it bare.

So now you know that. You can just tick that box and store it away.

You should really stop thinking about whether or not he has a girlfriend.

He pulls up outside your building and he's out of the car and over to your side in a flash. He reaches down and helps you to stand. You notice how he doesn't ask you this time, as if he's already figured you'll say no to any assistance.

You lean against the car while he grabs your stuff from the trunk. He slings your bag over his shoulder while you position the crutches and follows close behind you, his arm held out a bit toward you in case you fall.

In the lobby, you curse under your breath. The elevator is out again. Your apartment is on the second floor. Shit. Shit. Shit. Could you look any more helpless right now? Well, you're not asking him to carry you up two flights of stairs. You're gonna need to get him to leave so that you can spend the next two hours trying to get to your front door.

“Listen,” you turn to Flip, hoping he hasn't seen the crappy post-it note that goes up about every two weeks in this building, “It was really kind of you to give me a ride, I really appreciate it.”

For some reason, you are now holding out your hand to shake his, like this is some kind of interview and you already know you haven't got the job. This literally could not get any worse.

He eyes your hand suspiciously and tilts his head to the side to look over your shoulder.

“Your elevator's out,” he says, and there is the tiniest hint of those crinkles around his mouth.

You look hard at the ceiling, entirely defeated, “Yeah, I know.”

“What floor are you on?”

“Second. Apartment 27.”

He motions you toward the wall.

“Wait here. I'll bring up your stuff and come back for you.”

“Really, I'll be fine.”

He ignores you, takes your crutches and disappears up the stairs.

He's gone for so long that you wonder if he's somehow gotten lost between floors.

When he comes back down, his shoulders are hunched. He takes his hands out of his pockets and them shoves them back in again. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other in front of you and you take in all these details so you can assign an emotion to them later, like you're cataloging him.

“Do you feel like getting some food?” he asks you, abruptly.

“What? Now?”

“Yeah, I know a place around here somewhere. We could get lunch or something?”

It's three o'clock in the afternoon, but that's not what's really caught your attention. It's the way he's asking you, like it's not a big deal to him at all. There's no hint that he's nervous about asking you out. Something is out of place here but you can't figure out what it is.

“Well, thanks for the offer but maybe another time? Doc says I gotta rest.”

“Well, my place isn't too far from here, I could take you there?”

He's rubbing the back of his head, looking at his car through the front doors. You can tell he's not thinking about what he's saying. He doesn't want you to go upstairs.

You say your next words very slowly.

“You want to take me to your place so I can sleep?”

He freezes.

“Flip, you want to tell me what's going on?”

“Aw, shit. There's some graffiti on your door. I didn't want you to see it.”

“What's it say?”

“Nothing good.”

“And your plan was...?”

“Get you out of the building, call Jimmy, ask him and Ron to clean it up before you got back. Maybe have a patrol do a couple of driveby's for the next few days.”

You try to stop yourself smiling but it doesn't work all that well. He's looking a little flushed and there is that pulling in your chest again.

He straightens up and takes a deep breath.

“OK, well, I guess there's nothing for it then. I'll take you up.”

He doesn't wait for you to agree, just dips toward you and lifts you. You steady yourself against him, bringing your arm around his shoulder as he crosses the hallway to the stairs.

By the time you reach the second floor, he is valiantly trying to pretend he's not getting tired and your ribs are really starting to hurt. You're longing for the painkillers they gave you at the hospital. They're in your bag and they make you woozy in the best way.

**Niggar Lovin Whor**

He sets you down outside your door and you stare at the scrawled words in distaste.

“I'm not sure what's more upsetting, the sentiment or the spelling...”

He's watching you, gauging your reaction as if you might fall apart. But you've seen worse than this. You're no damsel in distress... though you're not sure that holds much water seeing as how he's just carried you up two flights of stairs.

“I'll call the super,” you say as you let yourself in, “Should only be another few weeks before he gets around to it.”

You start to laugh but Flip isn't smiling. He's followed you to the middle of your living room and he's looking at your tiny apartment without expression.

You've tried to make it nice, but it's not like you had a huge decorating budget. Most of the furniture you bought second-hand. You've painted it bright colours and filled the walls with art and photography.

Your books take up most of the space, filling shelves and stacked in small towers on every side table. Your desk is as messy as ever but there's a shelf over it with three small journalism awards displayed alongside your very favourite books.

Your bedroom door is open. He looks away from the bed quickly.

You hand him a glass of water over the kitchenette counter, leaning on a crutch as you stretch it out to him. He drinks it in one go. His adam's apple moves up and down his throat as he swallows. You swallow too, though you're not drinking.

“OK,” he says as he sets the empty glass on the counter, “I guess I should go... unless you need anything?”

There is a foot of Formica countertop between you. You imagine yourself reaching across it and pulling him closer to you.

_Did he just lick his lips? Shit, stop staring at his mouth._

You shake your head and he looks at you for a long moment, during which you try hard not to let your eyes slip back to his lips.

“OK,” he says again and goes to the door.

“Hey, Flip,” you call out and your mind races as he stops in the doorway.

_Think of something to say, think of something to say, think of ANYTHING to say, Abby..._

He saves you, which seems to be becoming a habit. 

“I can come back in a couple of days, if you like, make sure that shit gets scrubbed off your door?”

You smile and let out a breath you feel you've been holding since he turned up at the hospital.

“Sure, I'd really like that.”

He takes his wallet out of his jacket and fishes out a card. You take it from his outstretched hand.

“That's my number, in case you need anything before then.”

“Great.”

You smile so wide your cheeks start to hurt from it. You're in trouble.


	3. The Non-Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry, but Ron's prank phone call was the most fun I've had writing in years.

It's day three of what feels like house arrest. Cassie came over on your first night back. But the graffiti spooked her and she didn't even stay till the end of The Twilight Zone re-run you'd been watching. At least she brought wine.

Your friends are working, the elevator still isn't fixed and your belligerent super has told you every day that he's gonna paint your door but you're still announced as a 'whor' to anyone who passes in the halls.

Worse, you've sat and stared at a phone number for longer than you care to admit and you still cannot think of a single valid reason to call Flip Zimmerman. Is it weird to ask him to come over just because you haven't seen another person in days?

You're gonna lose your mind if you don't get back to work soon.

You jump when the phone rings. It's so loud in the quiet of your home.

Gunshot loud.

You press a hand to your chest and take a couple of deep breaths before you pick up the receiver.

It's Ron, you recognise his voice but he sounds kinda funny when he asks if he has the right number.

You confirm, confused.

“Well, hey there, Abby. This is Flip. Flip Zimmerman.”

“Ron?” Your voice is too high.

You hear a crash in the background. There's a thump and a deep, muffled, _very_ serious voice, is speaking quietly and far away from the mouthpiece. You can't make out the words.

Ron comes back on the line.

“I was just wondering if I could come paint your door - ”

There's another crash and Ron is laughing. You can hear Flip let out a string of stifled curses through, what must be, gritted teeth. The phone hisses a series of static crackles, like it's involved in some kind of tussle.

Silence. Then, another voice fills the line.

“Abby? Uhmm... Sorry about that. We were just wondering, uh, how you were doing?”

“Flip?” You ask.

“Uh, yup, it's me... it wasn't, before... with the door. But, it is...now.”

Ron laughs in the background again. You think you hear him drawl out the word 'smooth'.

“I'm good,” you tell Flip. He doesn't respond.

“Actually, I'm bored out of my mind. I can't go back to work till next week and it turns out I'm not so great at the whole R&R thing.”

He goes really, really quiet.

“Well, I could come round, after work. Bring you some more books? Looked like you were running low on those.”

You laugh. Your stomach is ricketing and it makes you bounce on your heels as you hold the phone.

“I'd really like that.”

“OK, then. I'll see you at seven. I'll bring something to eat.”

He hangs up before you can say goodbye and you're left holding the phone, wanting to hug Ron Stallworth and wondering how weird it would be to open the door to Flip Zimmerman in full-on date gear and then, not go out.

You cannot believe how long it has taken you to get ready for a non-date.

It took you over an hour to select bell-bottoms and a thin Rolling Stones t-shirt that you tuck in to cover the square dressing on your side. Casual, but cute. Maybe you should wear the white blouse?

He's five minutes early. Crap. No time to change now.

You check the mirror before you open the door. Seriously, you need to get back to work. You've never cared about your appearance this much before. It's gotta be the lack of external stimuli.

“Hey.”

_Shit. He's so hot. External stimuli may not be the issue here._

He's standing in the hall, which smells like Chinese Food, holding a bag and a bottle of wine and looking like he has no idea what to do next.

“Come in,” you hold the door open for him. You wish you'd closed your bedroom door because the bed is covered in discarded outfit possibilities.

He puts the bag on the counter and starts unpacking it.

“You got plates?”

“Nope... no cutlery either. I'm toughening myself up for when I report from the front lines,”

You're joking, but as you limp around him to the cupboard, he's too quiet.

“Shit. You served?”

“Two tours.”

You put the plates on the counter, close your eyes and sigh.

“Sorry,” you can barely hear yourself, “I wasn't thinking.”

“That's alright.”

He smiles at you but you decide not to speak for the rest of the night, or maybe ever again.

“No crutches?” he asks, trying to break the tension.

You shoot him an overly bright smile and throw your arms up.

“I'm all fixed. Rebuilt even better than before.”

He laughs and nods at you.

“Yeah, looks like it.”

_Wait, was that a compliment?_

His neck turns red first and the colour creeps to his cheeks a second later. Your cheeks are burning too. This is going juuuuuuuust great.

You don't have a dinner table so you eat on the couch, plates balanced in your lap. It's greasy noodles and some kind of sweet meat that could be chicken but might also be pork. Your couch is so small that every time Flip sets his plate down to reach for his drink, his thigh touches off yours. Every time, the contact sends a jolt of warmth through your entire body. You can't really concentrate on the food. It's the best meal you've ever had.

He talks more than you thought he would. He tells you about the raid, almost exactly the same story as Ron had told you, but you listen like you'd never heard or read a thing about it. He tells you he's Jewish and for some reason, this feels like a big thing for him. He even talks about work, and how sometimes he feels like his hands are tied, that he's not making that much of a difference.

“You made a pretty big difference to me.” You laugh but it still sounds too heavy to be talking about on a first non-date.

You tell him more about your job, about your favourite foster mom, about your not-so-secret dream of winning a Pulitzer.

You laugh a lot. Both of you do. It feels like years since you've laughed this much. Your side starts to ache with the movement and you realise that three hours have gone by. You're supposed to take your pain meds but they make you kinda dippy and you've already drunk two glasses of wine.

Flip notices your discomfort and stands.

“I oughta' let you get some rest.”

He takes the plates to the sink, rinses them, while you take an extraordinary amount of time to get up off the couch, trying not to jar your side.

“You don't have to do that,” you call but he's already done. _Efficient_.

He leans his hip against the counter. He's so tall that he makes your tiny kitchen look like a rich kids playhouse.

“Abby... would you like it if I came back tomorrow?”

You don't trust yourself to speak so you just nod.

“OK, then. Same time?”

“Yeah.”

Your eyes are too wide. You are staring. You want him to walk over to you. You've been watching his mouth all night and you are dying to kiss him. The _want_ is a swell that flows through you like a wave.

He's staring too, and you are willing him to come closer, trying to send some kind of psychic signal when he looks away and rubs a hand over his jaw.

“OK,” he says.

He pulls his jacket from the chair and walks to the door.

 _Oh, fuck_. You've misread this whole thing. He has absolutely no interest in you. You're just some girl he feels kinda sorry for. He probably has a girlfriend waiting for him at home. How the hell did you read this situation so wrong?

You're frowning at the floor when you realise you haven't heard the door close. When you look up, he's standing in the frame, watching you.

“You alright?”

“Yeah,” you tell him but your voice is thin, dazed, “I'm sorry. I think I might be... I mean, I just thought...um...”

You can't finish that sentence in any way that doesn't make you sound pathetic. But he's already striding toward you, taking the room in two lengths.

His hand cups the side of your face, thumb running the length of your cheekbone and you're so, so confused right now.

“You're...” he looks like he's in pain, “Beautiful.. smart and interesting and funny... but you're also... injured, you know?”

He sounds just as confused as you are.

You blurt your response and later, you'll blame the irritation in your voice on the wine.

“Flip, I didn't get shot in the mouth. You can kiss me goodnight.”

He winces but then bursts out laughing and you bring a hand up to cover your eyes. He hasn't moved his palm from your face but he has stepped closer and your fingers are touching his and you can feel the heat of his chest right in front of you.

You keep your eyes covered and he is so, so close to you but you can't see what he's doing.

“I'm sorry, I was trying to be a gentleman.” He's laughing still.

“Well don't... do that.”

You're laughing now too and your eyes are still covered when he brings his mouth close to yours.

You stop laughing fast.

“OK”

You hear the smile in his voice, feel the movement of his lips right beside yours, the tickle of hair. Then he's kissing you and, at first, it's gentle and sweet. But when you slip your hand from your eyes and slide it into his hair, something changes.

His fingers glide down your arm to your lower back.

You tilt your body concave into his, melting against him. You make a sound you're sure you've never made before as you run your tongue along his bottom lip.

He tastes like the wine you'd both drunk and the faint sharpness of cigarettes and something heady that is all him.

You tug on his hair and he grunts, low and hard. It seems to break this whole 'gentleman' thing he had going on because his body tightens as he kisses you. He presses you solid against him and his hand slips behind your head, tilts it. He sucks on your lip, dips his tongue into your mouth. His hand reaches lower and his fingers are gripping and releasing over and over and you can't seem to stop making these tiny noises that don't sound like you at all.

He kisses you until you can't feel anything except all the places you are touching and all of those places are burning and you think you could keep doing this until you both die of starvation and it wouldn't be such a bad way to go...

 _Better than a bullet_.

You hear the shot.

It's just a split second but it sounded so loud, so real.

You pull back with a gasp and try to clear the ringing in your ears with quick little shakes of your head.

“Fuck, did I hurt you?”

“No!”

You try to reassure him but you can't exactly explain it. Instead, you rise up on tiptoe and kiss him again.

He's resolute this time though, he won't let it get out of control, and then he brings his forehead to yours.

“Jesus,” he breathes.

He kisses the space between your brows and steps back from you, keeping his hand on your cheek.

“You're sure you're alright? I got a little more into that than I meant to...” He frowns at your midsection.

“Yeah, me too. But I'm fine.” You cross your arms over your ribs.

“I'll see you tomorrow?”

“Yup.”

He gives you one last kiss, chaste and sweet, then wavers in front of you, like he wants more. He blows out a quick puff of breath and spins on his heel. You sink onto the couch and there is an ache between your legs that's so acute you have to cross them as he leaves.


	4. What Flip Does to You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who needs plot...

You brave the stairs the next morning. It's hard, but you manage it. You walk to the deli using one crutch and it feels like you've run a marathon by the time you place your meagre groceries on the kitchen counter.

You read, you finish writing your article in time for the print run, you stretch your body like the doc showed you and you try to stop thinking about that kiss. It's not working.

You're thinking about it constantly.

The flashes you usually have of bloodied hands and shots ringing out are replaced with the feeling of strong arms pressing you to a broad chest. You keep running your fingertip over your lip and you catch yourself smiling way more than you have any right to.

You are in soooo much trouble.

You wear your tightest pair of flared jeans and a soft white shirt that you know sets off your tan. You cook. You're good at cooking, it's just that most of the time you don't have the time or energy for it. You're ready fifteen minutes early and Flip arrives at five to seven.

He's standing in the hallway with a bottle of turpentine.

“You OK if I clean this shit off your door now?”

You laugh because he looks irritated and serious which is not what you were expecting at all.

“Bad day?”

He leans his forearm against the door frame above your head, looks down at you while you fight the urge step into him. After a moment, he smiles and dips down to kiss your cheek.

“It's getting better.”

How does such a small gesture make you feel so fluttery?

He sets to work as you plate up meatloaf and salad and you're smiling to yourself because it feels a little like playing house. You hated that game when you were a kid but it's not so bad watching Flip's plaid shirt stretch over his arm as he scrubs. You figure the bullet wound makes you less of a 50's housewife anyway.

You talk all through dinner again. You could listen to that voice read the phone book and you'd still find it sexy. Your cheeks hurt from smiling and there's much less of that shy awkwardness from yesterday.

After dinner, he rinses the plates and hands you a beer. It's weirdly domestic until you shift toward him in your seat.

He turns to you at the same time and you both freeze with your faces only an inch apart.

You have absolutely no idea what you were going to ask him.

“You in any pain, right now?” Flip's voice is quiet, husky.

His eyes drop to your lips and you lick them before you can stop yourself.

His hand slides along the back of the couch toward you. You see this in the corner of your eye because you cannot look away from his mouth.

“No, I'm all better. I feel fine,” your voice is barely above a whisper.

“Oh, you're _damn_ fine,” he says and then his lips are on yours and he dips a tongue into your smiling mouth. He rises and twists, easing you back into the pillows, all without breaking the kiss. You feel his hand on the back of your knee. He urges it up and leans so you can angle your leg around his hip.

You're enveloped by him then, one huge hand on the back of your neck, the other skimming over your thigh. He trails back up your body and cups the curve of your breast, long thumb circling.

You arch your pelvis off the couch into his and the contact makes you moan. He responds by pushing his hips forward, pressing you into the couch.

There is heat pulsing through you and neither of you can stop moving: hands, lips, tongues, bodies, all of them touching and pressing and shifting until your breath is hitching.

Your ribs ache. The warmth at your core overpowers the discomfort. You're pretty sure this was not what the doc considered rest but what does he know anyway?

You reach under his shirt, run your palm flat along the smooth skin of his side. Your thumb digs beneath his belt, finds the point of his hip bone.

He jerks.

You break the kiss to gasp at the hardness of his thrust against your pubic bone.

Flip backs off immediately, breathing hard, his hands on your knees, kneeling between them. He's watching you, eyes dropping to your stomach and back, as you try to catch your breath.

You are reeling from the sudden loss of contact. Your ribs are really hurting now.

He sits back and pulls your legs into his lap. For a few minutes, you are both looking at the ceiling as your breathing slows.

_This is weird._

Maybe a more traditional date is what you should be aiming for? You can't get so out of control that you cause yourself internal bleeding at the movies, right?

You sit up. But once you're up, you keep moving, carefully swinging your leg over his. He helps you seat yourself in his lap, hands at your hips, automatic, like they're made to span your waist.

He takes a deep breath through his nose as you drape your arms over his shoulders, gripping the back of the couch behind his head.

“What are you doing Friday night?” You ask and he raises his eyebrows at you.

You don't wait for him to answer.

“You should take me out.”

“Oh I should, should I?”

“Mm-hmm”

“Out where?”

“I don't care. Somewhere with people... and beer.”

“Like a bar?”

“Hmmm.... that might work.”

“OK, then. It's a date.”

His eyes dip to your waist. He can't help himself, “Are you hurt?”

“No. 'Hurt' is not the adjective I would use to describe what you do to me, Flip.”

You're not sure how you just went from trying to organise a sweet little date to sounding like you have a major role in a particularly articulate porno movie.

His hips move, a reflex, an adjustment that brings him aligned beneath you.

You wriggle your hips, drunk with the power you have over him. But he seems to want to display power of his own because he runs his hands up your thighs and over your ass. He pulls your hips down against him and you gasp again, but this time, he does not stop.

He wraps one arm around your waist, brings the other to your neck to pull you into a kiss. Then he is grinding against you, holding your body where he wants it and you cannot stop the noises that are coming from you. Flip is making sounds too, sparse, short sounds that you want to hear over and over.

There is heat building between you and you feel it travel up through you till your face is flushed with it.

You are thinking about your bed. You are thinking about what he looks like under his shirt. You are thinking about the pressure of his cock beneath you, between two layers of denim, and about how you cannot seem to touch each other without losing all measure of control.

You don't care if you rip a stitch.

He lifts you from the couch without warning. He steps over the coffee table, still locked to your mouth. You know where you want him to go and it seems like he's headed that way. But then he swings away from the bedroom he sets you down on the kitchen counter and you think this might work too.

But then he's pulling away.

“Holy shit,” he laughs, “I feel like a fucking teenager.”

You laugh and unhook your legs from around his back.

“So Friday, I take you out, huh?”

You nod.

He puts his hand, very softly, over the wound in your side. You wonder how, during all that groping you've been doing, he managed not to touch you there once. He'd obviously had more presence of mind than you'd had.

You push away the image that comes with his touch, the one where you are struggling for breath and his hand is staunching your blood.

“This OK?” he asks.

“Mm-hmm.” The heat of his hand is soothing. You take a deep, slow breath.

He stares at you for what feel like minutes.

“OK,” he says, drawing out the 'O” sound.

You are starting to recognise that Flip uses this word in place of a whole plethora of meanings. This time you figure it means, _I gotta go or I'm going to pick you up, throw you down on that bed, and rip your clothes off_.

“OK,” you smile. In your head you're screaming, _You gotta go or I'm gonna strip right here_.

You hop down off the counter as he pulls on his jacket.

The kiss he gives you as he leaves is quick, like he doesn't trust himself to linger for a second longer.

Friday cannot come fast enough.


	5. Grateful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one earns it's E-rating...   
> *runs away and hides*

The bar is packed. Flip draws you in, close to his side, as you move through the crowd. You've left your crutch at home but you're barely limping now.

He seems to know everyone here but it's not until you get to the booth and see Ron, with an older man you don't recognize, that you realise he's taken you to _his_ bar. This is a cop bar. You'll be meeting his co-workers, his friends, tonight.

You pull at the hem of your short dress.

“You already know Ron,” Flips gestures at his partner, “this is Patrice and Jimmy. This is Abby”

He slides in next to you as you greet everyone, slips an arm over the back of your seat.

You pretend you have never seen Patrice before and, to her credit, her face remains entirely blank as she shakes your hand.

For the first hour, it's just the five of you and the conversation is light. There's lots of wisecracking about the article you wrote on Ron and nobody mentions the fact that you are only alive because two of the cops sitting at this table responded to suspicious activity call.

But then, other cops start to approach as the night wears on. In ones and two's, you are introduced to, what must be, half the station.

You can't remember the name of the cop who says it.

You'd been introduced to too many people to remember anything other than what he said.

He'd shaken your hand, bending over the table so that Flip had to lean back in his seat to accommodate him.

“So you're the reporter, huh? The one Flip's been obsessed with since he saved your life? I can see why, now,” he licks his lips, leaves them overly slick, “and I'll bet you're real, _real,_ grateful.”

You blink at his leering tone but he doesn't see because his eyes have dropped to your breasts and then Flip is moving, fast.

His hand presses the cop's chest, pushing him back from the table as Flip rises to his feet, towering over him.

You get a full view of an entirely ungentle Flip, one whose usually quiet voice is strained and loud over the music.

“What the fuck did you say to her?”

Your stomach flutters in alarm.

His free hand is clenched by his side, the knuckles white. From this angle, he looks immense and threatening.

Then Ron is there, positioning himself between his partner and the stumbling, drunken cop. Flips holds his cool and lets Ron pull the cop away from him, out the back of the bar. But the way he is staring after them, his jaw ticking, sends a chill down your spine.

“Well, this date's going really well.”

You say it quietly, to yourself, but Patrice hears you and leans in.

“I wouldn't worry, I've had worse.”

Jimmy starts to laugh and explain about some bust that Patrice had been a part of at this very table but he stops when Flip edges back in beside you.

“You OK?” he asks and you nod. But his face keeps that dark countenance.

Ron comes back and Jimmy slides over so Ron can sit next to Patrice. He wraps an arm around her and she sinks a little into his side.

“Sorry about that guy,” Ron tells you, “one too many.”

Patrice moves the conversation on and you throw her a grateful smile as she discusses the next event she's planning with her student union.

Flip doesn't say much. He slides his hand onto your bare knee but when you look at him, he is steadfastly listening to Jimmy and doesn't turn his head.

Every time his fingers move, even a fraction, it sends little thrills through your body and you lose track of the conversation.

Eventually, you fake a small yawn and Flip pounces on the opportunity to take you home. He's too quiet though, saying almost nothing on the ride back to your place.

Outside, he pulls up but doesn't turn off the engine. You turn in your seat, the first vestiges of apprehension in your belly.

“Listen,” he says and you turn toward him, back pressed against the door, “That guy was an asshole but he might have a point.”

You tilt your head, wait out his silence until it seems to take a shape around you. He's looking at the steering wheel and his voice is soft, thoughtful and sad.

“I mean, trauma can do things to a person, you know? Make you hear things, see things... maybe make you want things you might not want otherwise... people you wouldn't want otherwise.”

That's it, you've heard enough.

“This is why you've been so quiet?”

You practically launch yourself at him. You pull his head to meet yours and slip into his lap. His hands come up but he doesn't put them on you until you are pushing your tongue against his teeth, forcing his mouth to open for yours.

Then his hands are everywhere, roving over your back and your breasts and in your hair, like he's clinging on to any part of you he can get. He bends you back against the steering wheel and you both jump at the sound of the car horn blaring.

He curses and opens his door, taking you with him as he steps out of the car. He lifts you and carries you to the lobby. The elevator is working, and he sets you down inside it but keeps kissing you. His arm rests against the wall by your head and you are caged by his wide frame, pressed between him and the cool metal.

When the doors ping open, he reaches down and you jump to wrap your legs around his waist. You're kissing so frantically that he reaches out one hand to steady himself against the wall as he walks to your apartment.

But that same reluctance seeps into him as he waits for you to unlock your door. He stands tall when you reach to pull him inside with you.

“Abby-”

You are gonna lose your shit, you know it. You take a breath.

“Flip?” you interrupt him, keeping your voice low, “You know, you're not the only one who saved me, right? Ron was there too. And then there's the EMT's who hauled my ass to hospital and the _doctors and surgeons_ who spent hours stitching me back together. I'm grateful to all of them, and you, for what you did for me.”

You lower your voice to a whisper, “But, I swear, if you try to tell me one more time that I don't really want you, I'm gonna knock you the fuck out and we'll see how _trauma_ affects _you_ , got it?”

He is entirely silent, for about three seconds.

Then, you're lifted off the ground and the door is slamming shut and the lights aren't on in your apartment so he's staggering against the counter and the walls and then, finally, his knee's hit your bed.

You squeak as he lowers you onto it, clinging to his neck and squeezing your legs around his hips so he won't drop you.

You reach to turn on the bedside light so you can see him.

His pupils are blown wide, his hair is mussed and one side of his flannel collar is sticking up. You have never seen anything sexier in your life. You take a long, steadying breath.

“Take your shirt off,” you tell him and he gives you a lopsided smile and stands at the end of the bed to unbutton it.

“Yes, Ma'am.”

His fingers move swift and sure and he tugs it off his broad shoulders. He's wearing a ribbed undershirt and he lifts it, fast, over his head.

Somehow, his body seems even bigger without clothes.

_How is that possible?_

You run your eyes over his broad chest, the bulk of muscle that etches his stomach, the smattering of hair on his lower abdomen that dips below his waistband.

_Grateful my ass._

You prop yourself up on your elbows with another deep breath. You slip off your boots. His eyes trail up your legs to where your short dress gathers lace high on your thighs. There are those expressive little movements of the tiny muscles around his eyes, like he's taking in as much of you as he can.

You motion with your finger for him to come closer. He does so, slowly, running his hands up to the back of your knee, higher, until his fingers are inches from your underwear. You are so glad you wore your matching set.

You undo the zip at the side of your dress, trying to be slow, failing.

He hunches over, runs his tongue up the line of skin you've opened to him. Your ribs fire but it's not pain. Its cool air on the damp trail his mouth has left on your skin and it makes you shiver. He unhooks one shoulder from your dress, kisses along your collarbone.

You run your hands over his arm, tensed as he holds himself over you. His other hand skims up and down your thigh and then he's kissing you and those sounds are coming from you again, sounds only he has ever driven from you.

“Take this off,” he husks as he pulls your other shoulder free of the dress. He helps you shimmy it down your body and he pulls it from your legs.

When he comes back to you his eyes fix on the gauze square that covers your wound. It stops him cold.

He puts a hand over it, gentle again. He sighs.

You reach up and turn his face to yours.

“Flip, please...” you don't know how to finish that sentence.

_ Please pretend that I wasn't bleeding all over the floor the first time we met? Please forget about this healing bullet wound and touch me?  _

_ Please, please, don't stop. _

He saves you, again.

“Aw, fuck...” He kisses you, heated and hard, hand gripping your ass. Your arms wrap around his shoulders, trace over the muscle of his back. You dip your fingers beneath the waistband of his jeans.

Then his hand is there, over your underwear, and you feel like he may have touched a live wire because your entire body is thrumming. You have to hold onto him.

“Holy shit.”

Did you say that or did he?

You don't care. You just want more.

You push his hand until his fingers slip beneath the lace and he's sliding them against you. You cry out, rasping breath. He keeps his face close to yours, nudges your cheek with his nose, drops to slip his tongue into your open mouth.

“Christ, you're so wet.”

You reach down to touch him through his jeans. He is so hard.

You fumble with his belt.

He slips one hand behind your back and unhooks your bra. _Smooth_.

You fling it off the bed and he doesn't give you a second before his mouth is on your nipple, circling and sucking while his fingers set a steady pace.

He pushes lower. The pressure of his finger inside you, moving slow, draws a loud, long sound from you. He adds a second. You get louder.

You feel it building when he moves his thumb. How did he do this to you so fast?

Your legs start to shake and he holds you tighter.

His mouth moves to your other breast, licks hard and pulls the point between his teeth, you feel the hard edges skimming the sensitive skin there.

His fingers are moving, sliding, unrelenting.

It feels like he is touching you everywhere and then the pleasure focuses to a shuddering point. Your vision whitens and your hands fly to his neck, pulling at his hair.

You urge him to you as you cum, pressing his forehead to yours and breathing high, hard breaths into his mouth.

He works you through it, holding you tight, easing the pace until he's barely moving and you are trembling beneath him.

“Holy shit.”

He said it, you're almost certain this time.

He is breathing nearly as hard as you are. He leans back on the pillows, pulls you to his chest, as if you are finished.

You kiss his skin and he shifts uncomfortably.

Then you are up, trailing a line from his sternum to his waist.

You're trembling. You're sated. You still want more.

You pull his belt open. Pop the button on his jeans and he lifts his hips so you can pull them down. His body is rigid. His boxers tent high. You watch his face as you pull them up and over the length of him.

He is huge. Dark pink and thick and veined.

There is a droplet at the tip. You lick it and his hips convulse. You press him back into the bed, look up at him, settling your mouth over the head, taking as much as you can.

He sighs and tips his head back against the headboard to watch you.

You squeeze your fingers around the base, move up and down with the rhythm of your mouth. His hands are in your hair, fingers gripping and releasing. He is holding back, you can tell.

You move faster. He grips you harder.

You hear him trying to slow his breath. You meet his eye and break the rhythm to pull away with an obscene pop and lick the fullness of his cock.

You are drunk on power again when he throws back his head, moans a long, harsh sound.

The pace you set now is fast, hard, you let him feel the edge of your teeth, you dig your tongue into that spot just beneath the head and he swells in your hand, rigid.

He is groaning. He is cursing. He is saying your name.

You had never liked blowjobs all that much but, you get it now. You could pull these sounds from Flip all night. You could do this to him forever.

He cums hard, with a strangled noise pulled from deep in his chest. You save yourself from choking by pulling back a little until he is against your lips. You feel the flash of him in your mouth, on your cheek, in your hair, hot on your neck.

You move your hand, slow and gentle, working him through it like he did for you.

He pulls you up, reaching for the box of tissues you keep on the bedside table. He swipes at your face, half laughing and you are sighing, an approximation of a laugh.

He kisses you and you squirm but he holds you there, tasting himself as presses his lips to yours.

“Holy shit,” you say, this time, glancing down.

He tucks you into his arm, his chest pressed to yours. His hand rests over the bullet wound in your side, gentle as ever. You stay that way for a long while, nudging each other often, trading small quiet touches.

“Thanks for what you did today, with the guy at the bar.”

“Don't worry about him, he's three beers short of a six-pack on his good days.”

He pauses, kisses your temple, looks down at you.

“Jesus, you're fucking beautiful.”

You laugh. You remember the thoughts that had come to you as you lay on dirty concrete.

“You know when we... first met? I was thinking that, about you, then. I was watching your face and I had this crazy urge to tell you that you were beautiful. But, you know...”

He sighs.

“You were brave,” he says, wincing, “you were hurt and scared, but there you were, reeling off details and trying not to-”

“Did you think I was pretty then?” you're laughing, deflecting with a question to distract from where this conversation is headed. He answers immediately.

“Fuck, yeah. I felt like a pervert about it, for days.”

You fall asleep that way, warm and satisfied and heavy-limbed and laughing.

Your underwear is still on.

_How is that possible?_


	6. Primo Chill Pills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's some actual plot in this chapter.  
> I mean, not much, but some...

You wake together, wrapped around each other.

The curtains are open and the sunlight turns his eyes golden brown.

Your ribs are hurting. You didn't take your pain meds last night. You don't care. He is smiling and nuzzling into your hair.

You laugh and cover your mouth.

“What?” he asks, and his brown eyes are crinkled and locked on yours.

“It's just our date. It was supposed to slow us down, you know? Out in public, other people there, somewhere we weren't three feet from a bed. I was trying to slow our roll, you know?”

He stares.

“You thought wearing that dress was gonna _slow my roll_?”

You laugh, hide your face in his neck.

“I did.”

“I think you might have miscalculated.”

You gesture down your body, naked but for the thin strip of your underwear.

“It would appear so.”

He looks at you, serious. He's evaluating again, working out how to phrase something he wants to say. Then, his eyes widen and he reaches for his watch.

“Shit, what time is it?”

Flip bounds up, moving quick, buttoning his jeans and pulling on his shirt and reaming off half-whispered curses. You pull the sheet over you, watch him yank on his boots.

“I gotta go,” he says as he leans down, cupping your face, dimples etching the skin around his mouth, “I'm really fucking late. Ron's gonna love this.”

You laugh.

He kisses you. He kneels on the bed and shifts over you, nudging your mouth open with his, pressing you into the pillows. You hold onto his shirt collar, the material is soft, his lips are pliant, you are a puddle beneath him.

Then he's growling, a frustrated noise, and he pulls away.

“I gotta go.”

You're laughing still.

He gets to the door, turns and comes back to you, kisses you some more.

“Can I see you tonight? I got a work thing but it shouldn't be late.”

“Uh-huh,” you would answer him with actual words but he's still kissing you.

“OK.”

“You gotta go.”

“I gotta go.”

He kisses you again. His hand finds your breast through the thin sheet. You laugh and nudge his shoulders.

“ _Fuuuck_ ,” he shakes his head and pushes to a stand, walks backwards to the door.

“Tonight.” He points at you. You shiver.

“Yes, Officer.”

“Oh, babygirl, you've done it now.”

He's back on the bed in a split second and this time you don't laugh. His mouth is hot and hungry and his hand is rough on your hip, your breast, your throat. You are arching off the bed toward him. Your ribs ache. You could not care less.

By the time he stops himself and pulls away, you are breathless.

“I gotta-”

“Flip, go!”

Then he's gone and your apartment has never felt so empty.

You walk to the store, pick up The Gazette. Your article appears on page eight. What happened to you is old news now. Is that upsetting or comforting? You're not sure.

You'll need to borrow a camera for work. Yours is still in evidence, it could be months before you see it again.

You drive your battered, second-hand car. The freedom of driving will never be lost on you again.

You get stuck in midday traffic and curse every car ever built.

Cassie isn't working today so you walk with her from her apartment to the park and lay in the sunshine. You tell her about the last few days.

“So, he's the cop that found you?”

“He's a detective.”

“Well, la-dee-dah, bitch!”

You swipe at her and she turns to you, leaning on her elbow.

“He could be a great source.”

Shit. You hadn't thought of that.

“He's not a source. I really, really like him, Cass.”

“Still.”

You laugh.

Cassie cooks. She's always been better at it than you.

Then she kicks you out because you're talking about Flip too much. She kisses your cheek as you leave.

“Just be careful alright. Cops are a handful, you know?”

“Oh, I know!” You raise your eyebrow and Cass practically shoves you out the door.

At home, the clock ticks slower. You distract yourself with bad TV and try to stop checking your watch.

9pm. Is this late? Maybe he's running late. Maybe he's not coming.

His job isn't exactly nine to five, and you're well aware of the types of situations that keep detectives out half the night. You've written about them, photographed the aftermath.

_Maybe he's hurt._

The fear clenches in your gut.

You tell yourself to stop. He's busy, he got distracted, he can't make it today. He's fine.

It's ten-thirty when you get a call. You pick up on the first ring.

“Flip?”

“It's Ron.”

You can't speak.

“He's OK. Car chase went a little sideways on us, is all. He's getting patched up now.”

“Are you alright?”

“I'm all good. He just wanted me to call so you wouldn't worry.”

“Where are you?”

“Mercy.”

“Can I come?”

“Yeah, he should be done in a little while. You can take him home. But Abby?”

“What?”

“You can't write about this, about anything Flip tells you. You know that, right?”

You wonder how much he knows. How much has Patrice told him? You get mad.

“Jesus, Ron. He's not a fucking story to me.”

“Sorry, I just... he's my partner, you know?”

“Yeah, I know. I'll be there in ten.”

You drive faster than you should. Ron is in the waiting room along with three other officers you vaguely recognise from yesterday. The Chief is there. You met him briefly at the bar but now that you are surrounded by people who've known Flip so much longer than you, you feel shy and out of place.

“Abby.” Ron puts his arm around your shoulders, “he's through here.”

He leads you down the corridor, to a set of double doors. He squeezes your shoulder but when you walk through, he turns and jogs back toward the waiting room.

Flip is sitting on the edge of the third bed, arms crossed and looking thoroughly pissed off.

His left eye is darkening. He's wearing a different shirt than this morning and the front panel of this one is covered in blood. There's a cut on the swollen bridge of his nose and a gash high on his forehead that's left a sweep of crimson over half his face.

A nurse is finishing the line of sutures to close it, so he can't move his head when he looks up at you. He looks about as happy about being in a hospital as you were a week ago.

You take a breath, smile.

“You look like hammered shit.”

He laughs.

“Feel like it, too. You didn't have to come down here, one of the guys could have dropped me home.”

“That's alright, I wanted to.”

The nurse snips the last stitch and Flip is up. He mutters his thanks to her and then stands right in front of you.

You look up at him.

“Are you in much pain?”

“Yup.”

“You want some of my pills? They're really good shit.”

“You know I work narcotics, right?”

“Yeah, I know. But these pills will make you forget you even have a face.”

“Oh, well in that case...” he kisses you gently on the side of your mouth, with the less bloodied side of his, and takes your hand, “Let's get out of here.”

He leads you back to the waiting room. You see Ron and the Chief, through the window. Flip opens the door but doesn't step through fully, keeping you outside.

“Chief, gonna call it a day.”

“I want that paperwork on my desk by midday.”

Flip nods and is about to close the door when you call over his shoulder.

“Ron, you need a ride home?”

“He's fine,” Flips says, deadpan and glowering, wanting to be alone with you but Ron is smiling.

“Patrice is on her way,” he explains.

Flip leads you out of the building and you point out your car.

“Where do you live?” you ask and it seems very strange that you don't already know this.

“I'll drive,” he holds out his hand for the keys.

“Not a chance,” you hold the keys to your chest, "You already crashed one car today..."

He smiles and gives you his address. He lives in a much nicer area than you.

By the time you pull up outside his white clapboard house, Flip's jaw is set against the pain and you reach for your bag and hand him the bottle of your pills.

“You're not coming in?” He seems both surprised and defeated.

“I didn't think you'd want me fussing over you, or laughing at you while you lose your mind on these primo chill pills.”

“No. That is exactly, and I mean _exactly_ , what I want.”

You laugh and follow him inside. He goes to the kitchen and swallows two of your pills.

You screw up your eyes. The dosage is one tablet every twelve hours. They are incredibly strong. You decide not to tell him now that it's too late to do anything about it.

As you turn to inspect his living room, you hear him go to the fridge. Bottles clink.

“Want a beer?” he calls out.

“Sure.”

His home is sparse but the furniture is surprisingly comfortable and there are _books_. Two wide shelves flank his large television. You are drawn to them, picking out titles you recognize and leafing through ones you don't.

While he goes to his bedroom to change, you assess his living space. His house is so much bigger than your apartment. It is scrupulously clean. It is uncluttered. It's the opposite of yours.

He comes up behind you and puts his arms around you as you snoop. He has taken off his shirt. There is a curved bruise forming just under his shoulder. His face is still bloody.

“Sit down, I'll clean you up.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

There is a surging in your belly when his voice drops that low.

His face is a mess. He sits down hard, like he's utterly exhausted. You take a dishcloth and run it under cold water. Leaning your hip against his table, you gently wash the blood from his skin.

He winces but doesn't make a sound as you work. Eventually, he relaxes and closes his eyes.

“You wanna tell me about it?”

“Nope.”

“Your boss doesn't too seem to happy with you.”

“He is not. We're not too happy with him either”

Your interest is piqued.

You stop asking questions. If you can't write this, you might be better off not knowing.

His face and neck are clean of blood. You stand and go to the freezer, wrap some ice cubes in a clean dishcloth and press it gingerly to the swelling on his forehead. He sighs, eyes still closed.

“Thank you,” he whispers and you plant a small kiss on his lips.

“How are you feeling?” you ask.

“Good. Really, _really_ good.”

He stands but then sways and has to press his hand to the table beside you to catch his balance.

“Woah, you weren't kidding about those pills.”

“I was not.”

“Come here.”

His foot is wedged between yours, his hip is pressed into your side. You're not sure how much closer you could possibly get. His eyes are hooded and he's looking down at you with his heated, hazy glare.

“I don't know, Zimmerman, I feel like I might be taking advantage here.”

“That's what I was going for.”

He dips his head and kisses you. It's sloppy and he leans so far forward that you have to brace yourself against the table to stop falling back.

You laugh and push him upright.

“Come on, I'll help you to bed.”

“Now we're talkin'”

He's swaying on his feet. It is adorable.

He puts an arm over your shoulder but he's not leaning any real weight on you as he leads you to his bedroom. It's just as sparse in here as the rest of his house. Dark walls, a large, iron bed, two small side tables with an alarm clock, an empty ashtray and a small, neat stack of books. His closet is built-in and it's huge. You snigger because you imagine it is filled with flannel shirts.

Flip pulls you down with him as he sits on the side of the bed. He sways and dips toward you. His head ends up in your lap.

“You smell nice,” he says as he slides a hand around your lower back.

You run your fingers through his hair.

“OK big guy, let's get you in here.”

You know what he's feeling, have felt it every night before you went to sleep. You push him back against the pillows and bend down to haul his legs onto the bed. You pull his boots off and then crawl in beside him, pressing as much of your body into his as you can.

He sighs deeply, the muscles in his back ripple with it.

“God, you feel good,” he says, half-asleep already.

You curl against him, rub his back, hold the icepack to his forehead again. He is silent for a while and you think he's already asleep. But then he speaks, slurring softly.

“What are you doing with me, Abby?”

You go quiet, trying to get him to be silent too. You would have run your mouth if you'd ever let yourself take even one of those little tabs in his presence. He's taken two of them. You try to protect him. You shush him.

“You're smart... ambitious... you're so fucking beautiful that sometimes I can't look...”

He's whispering now, slow and drowsy, and your heart tugs in your chest, you feel it pulse hard and then beat faster.

You shush him again.

“Go to sleep, Flip.”

You press your lips into his shoulder, his neck. You listen to the sounds he makes when you move your mouth along the stubbled skin of his jaw. He's asleep within minutes.

Hours later, sometime in the early morning, judging by the faint light from the window, you wake to find him smoking beside you, his free arm tucked around you.

“Oh, Flip, your face.”

You touch his skin timidly, kiss the deep red line that streaks from the corner of his black eye.

“You should have seen the other guy.”

Well, he's feeling better, if he's cracking jokes. You can't help yourself.

“There was another guy?”

“Nah, but that steering wheel took a beating.”

You laugh. He stubs out the cigarette and kisses you.

“Thanks for staying.”

“Your bed's way nicer than mine. What time do you have to go to work?”

“Fuck work.”

He presses himself against you. You feel the hardness of him on your thigh. But the rest of him is gentle. His hand moves over you, up and down your side until he feels you relax into him.

He unbuttons your blouse and you remove his belt. It is slow, languid.

You wonder how much pain he is in.

He kisses the skin of your stomach, just over the gauze and you understand, now, that he has been wondering this about you all along. All that reluctance you've seen from him in the last few days, that need to protect, to make sure that what he is doing won't hurt you. You feel it too.

Slow kisses trace down your side, trail from hip bone to hip bone as he unhooks your jeans. His facial hair scratches the curve of your skin as he slips your jeans down over your hips. He stands at the end of the bed to pull them smoothly from your legs.

You watch him step out of his jeans.

You kneel on the bed before him.

You keep your lips soft and move slowly, one hand wrapped around the base, the other tracing circles on his hip. He sighs, makes those small sounds you love.

He lets you suck and lick and you get lost in the silky feel of him for minutes before his hands press your shoulders back. Your mouth pulls from him with a pop that makes him shudder. He kisses you, tongue unhurried against yours.

“Lie back, baby,” he tells you.

You do exactly as you're told and see your world in anticipatory flashes.

The delicate scratch of his goatee on the inside of your knee. The swipe of hot tongue on your inner thigh.

You tense but his hands soothe you, running the length of your legs.

His mouth finds you. He is gentle, at first. Soft and slow until you are sighing and moving beneath him.

Then his thumb is there instead, opening your folds to him.

He meets your eyes with a dark, predatory gaze.

You clench, involuntary, and his eyes flick down.

He gives you a lopsided, wolfish grin and strokes lazy circles. His voice is deep and jagged.

“Tell me what you want.”

“I want... ahhh... I want you.”

Now, he is firmer with you, moving faster. His fingers are inside you, rubbing at a spot that sends heat through your spine. His tongue and lips are unyielding. Every nerve in your body is concentrated on the feeling.

Your breath comes faster. Your legs tighten. He lifts them over his shoulders.

His mustache sends jolts through you every time it brushes against you. You are unravelling. You are on fire.

He moans a deep rumble against you and the vibration fists your hands in the sheet. You're not sure if you are calling his name or cursing. Maybe it is both. You are so close.

His lips wrap around your clit and he _sucks_.

You are screaming. You are arching. Your stomach is pulsing against the soft underside of his forearm.

He does not give you time, doesn't ease you down.

His rises over you and nuzzles his cheek to yours. You are only vaguely aware of what he is doing until he wraps an arm around you, hauls you up the bed.

He captures your cry with his tongue. You taste yourself and moan into him. His cock is pressing where his fingers had been.

“Abby, tell me you want this.” It's not a question. It's an order.

“Yes.” You don't know how many times you say yes.

You are still shuddering when he edges into you.

“Holy shit, you're tight.”

He eases further inside you. You grip his arm, widen your knees, trying to give him more room. He keeps going, brow furrowed, concentrating on your face, watching for discomfort.

You both sigh when his pelvis finally meets yours.

Your aftershocks flutter against the length of him.

He pulls back, eases into you again. His shoulders are rigid, the muscles of his back are strained. He's holding back with everything he has. He knows how big he is, feels your walls struggle to take him.

“Abby, you OK?” He's asking, but he's also pleading, because he wants to move, he's shuddering with need. You arch into him, run your tongue up his neck to his jaw. You whisper.

“You feel so good.”

His hand tightens on your hip. His face darkens. He moves the way he wants to now, steady and deep.

Your breath catches, you grip the back of his neck. Your body slides higher with each thrust.

You reach back behind your head, grip the bed frame to hold yourself steady so he can push even deeper.

His hips jerk in response, slamming into you. The head of his cock hits your cervix and you both cry out. You had thought he wasn't holding back anymore, but he still had been.

Neither of you move for a moment.

“Fuck,” he whispers, his eyes moving from yours to where your fingers wrap around the iron, “Abby, I can't... I need to...”

You know what he needs. You tilt your head and look up at him through your lashes.

“Flip, fuck me the way you want.” That might be the dirtiest thing you've ever said.

You feel him move inside you, a tug that catches your breath. He dips his head to growl into your neck and then moves so fast that you have to push hard against the bed frame to keep your body still. The force of each thrust drives him against your clit. His cock rubs hard against the spot he had found inside you with his fingers.

Your body is humming. You are huffing out air every time his hips connect. Your hand fists in his hair, tug hard.

He shifts your body lower. You lose your grip on the bed. You wrap yourself around him, holding onto his arms, his shoulders anywhere you can reach.

There is heat in your face, sweat pricking your skin, a surge of deep, all-encompassing pleasure trembling in your belly. It building high and fast and you cry out, over and over. So close.

He talks you through it.

“That's it, baby, you're right there, cum for me, you feel so fucking good.”

Your body clenches and you clamp a hand over your mouth to stifle the scream.

He groans hard when he feels you undulate around him. He gives a series of near-violent jerks as your body turns boneless beneath him. Then he's rigid inside you, the surge of his cum deep and hot.

You sigh long, soft sounds as he slows. You run your fingers through his hair. You urge him to rest his head, kiss the side of his neck.

His breath slows. His arms tremble with the effort of keeping his weight off you.

When he pulls from you, he kisses you, and you both make a needy sound at the loss.

He tucks you into his chest.

After a while, he lights another cigarette, speaks through a bloom of exhaled smoke.

“Abby, that was...”

You tilt your head to look him. He's frowning slightly, like he's confused, and he shakes his head at you. You smile as he ducks to press his lips to the top of your head.

“Yeah, me too.”

You're drifting, spent.

You're also afraid.

In a little while, Flip will have to get up and go do his job and a few hours after that, you will go back to yours. Your next meeting with Luke is arranged for tonight. He has something for you.

Already, you know this will change things. You'll have to be careful about what you say to Flip about your job and that thought makes you want to cry.

Instead, you kiss him. He tastes like cigarettes, like you, like something primal and protective and precious.

You are in deep, deep trouble.


	7. The Skywalker Problem

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this fic is getting DARK... I'm a few chapters ahead and it's only getting darker. I would almost stop writing it before it gets out of hand but somehow, a young AU Luke Skywalker (LOOK WHAT I DID TO HIM!) has just poked his cute little head in to help you get your story, and I need to know where it ends up for him.

The seats in Patty's Bar are dirty.

There are sticky marks on the scratched tabletop. Across the room, the pool tables are crowded. This side of the bar is dark.

Luke is getting you a beer. He's underage but, in this bar, that doesn't matter. You are going to let him buy it for you and when he comes back to this table, you will allow him to sit on your side of it. You do this because you need him to feel comfortable, cocky even. You need him to feel this way because you want the information he has. And you know he has something.

You've been in contact with Luke for more than a year.

He was born into the KKK. He didn't stand a chance.

But you wonder who he would have been if he had been born into another life. Because in this one, you consider him a rebel.

He goes to the cross burnings, the target practice, the meetings. He learns the ropes of the organisation. He listens respectfully to his mama and his daddy, to his superiors.

And, he talks to you.

He tells you things that he _knows_ could get him killed.

You damn sure let him sit on your side of the table.

“Abby, we got a meet. Something big. Even bigger than last time.”

He winces.

You nudge his shoulder.

You know he feels guilty. He'd told you what he thought he knew.

He'd thought it was a meet, not a supply run. And you had paid the price for that error, but it wasn't Luke's fault. He was part of something you might loathe, but he was doing something about it, acting on his doubts in what he was raised to believe.

You wait for him to give you what he knows.

“There's a heavy hitter, outta Louisiana. I gotta tell you Abs, he scares the shit outta me. He's cold, you know, like a fucking shark or something – like he's not really there, you know?”

You nod, because you do know. You've seen that look up close.

“So there's this big meet tomorrow. Dad's taking me, and the new guy. Whatever I find I'll bring you tomorrow night. You sure you're up for it?”

You are not sure. You're not one fucking bit sure.

“'Course I am, Luke.”

* * * * *

“So, how's your first week back going?”

You'd gone to the station for lunch. You wouldn't be able to see Flip that night because you'd be seeing Luke after his big meeting. You were nervous, and you'd be lying if you said that being around Flip didn't make you feel calmer somehow, steadier.

There were other women walking across the car park too. They were holding thermos flasks and steel lunch boxes.

You were holding a sandwich bag from Henry's but Flip didn't seem to mind. He looked bashful when he saw you through the glass. That expression turned more menacing when he looked at his co-workers. He'd stood and moved you away from the bullpen, out to the benches that lined the parking lot.

“Good,” you answered him, “There were actual people there to talk to, so that was a plus.”

He leans to kiss you and you run your fingertips over the line of his jaw until it meets his goatee. You curl your fingers around the hair, encouraging his tongue to brush your lips. He pulls back a little, wincing.

“Look, there's this thing I have to do this week. It's gonna be long nights for a bit.”

He's looking at you like you're going to get mad. You raise an eyebrow.

“Long nights? – for an undercover cop? That's fucking _unheard of,_ Flip.”

This time, when he kisses you, he bends you back over the bench you are sitting on until you have to push at his shoulder.

“Easy, Detective.”

He gets a hungry look in his eye that has nothing to do with the food you've brought him. You try to distract him before you both get booked for indecent exposure.

“I actually have a thing myself. One of my sources has a story I have to follow up on.”

“You're ready to be back in the deep so soon?” His eyes have a serious edge but you decide humour is the best approach.

“Born ready, baby.”

He laughs. It doesn't reach his eyes.

“Just be careful.”

“You too. Call me when you can.”

You don't make plans. You've had a taste of what it feels like when he's late for a date and you don't want that kind of fear again. Better not to know when he's going to call or visit.

* * * * *

You show up for a beer at Patty's Bar an hour before your meeting with Luke.

You're surprised to find him there already but he slips into your booth after a few minutes. He slides you a piece of paper under the table. His knuckles trail across the top of your thigh.

You let him, but that's the line, right there.

“Who's in the room with you?”

“Dad, New Guy, the Boss Man from Shreveport and the usual crew.”

“You think you'll be given new targets?”  
“I'm guessing.”

“OK. What's on the page?”

“A list,” he squeezes your thigh with a charming grin.

You let him.

_OK, new fucking line. This kid is pushing it._

“List of what?”

“You know, I don't know exactly... but I can tell you that a certain Senator is busy on all the dates listed and the hotels next to each one is where Boss Dude is staying on those dates. Shockingly, those places and dates are the same for both parties.”

“Luuuuke...”

You don't know what to say. That could be a huge, almost everything you need.

“Abby... I'm sorry about what happened to you. If I'd known...”

What happened to you is not the kid's fault. Whatever his reasons might be, he is trying to make a difference. You grab his hand, shaking your head to stop him talking. His mouth turns down.

“Luke, what you're doing is brave, and dangerous. I need you to be careful, OK?”

He nods as the door to the backroom opens. You hear the group that emerges chatting and laughing, in high spirits before the coming meeting.

You turn your head to the wall.

“Abs, they're coming over.”

You squeeze his hand, lean in to talk low in his ear.

“I'm a friend from school, use my first name only.”

He nods but his eyes are too wide.

A hand comes down to squeeze his shoulder, the flash of a thick gold ring.

“There's my boy,” says a booming voice you recognise as his father's, “What I tell you? He's a chip off the old block with the ladies.”

You look up then, smiling like you think that is the funniest thing you've ever head.

Daryl Chambers is leering at you, but you're not who he is talking to. There's another man standing right behind him, a bottle of beer held loosely in his hand. New Guy.

 _Oh, fucking_ _**shit** _ _._

You keep smiling. You don't even blink.

“Dad, Karl, this is Abby. She's a friend from school,” Luke says it quiet, like he's scared, and to cover his seemingly odd reaction, you reach out your hand to shake his fathers. Then you turn to New Guy... Karl... Flip _fucking_ Zimmerman.

He takes your hand in his huge palm but drops it almost immediately. There is a coldness to him you don't recognise. Your stomach jumps as he looks away, disinterested, sips his beer.

You slide the list into your back pocket and down half your beer in one go.

_You can do this. This is your fucking job._

You turn to Daryl, “It's so nice to meet you, Mr. Chambers. Luke here was just trying to persuade me to bring my dinged-up old Datsun by your place,” you lower your voice to a conspirational whisper, “I got shafted by the last guy I took it to for a tune-up but Luke swears you'd never do that to a lone woman.”

Daryl smiles at you. In your peripheral vision, Flip tilts his head at your newly acquired, if faint, accent but he doesn't look at you.

“Well, young lady, my boy was raised right by fine, upstanding white Americans.”

He'd dropped in the 'white' to see your reaction and you beam your approval at him.

“I think I can see that,” you giggle.

You feel sick but you fucking giggle, because this is your job and you need to get into Daryl's office where you are certain you will find the cooked books that funded the bullet a surgeon pulled from your torn abdomen. _Damn right you giggle._

“Well, you drop in any time, young lady,” Darly tells you and motions for Flip to follow him to the bar.

Luke lets out a breath and you squeeze his shoulder hard.

“You did fine. I'll see you after, out back. Be careful.”

He nods and follows the men to the bar. They order more drinks and turn back to the room they came from.

You move to your car so you can snap a photo of them as they leave, hoping to recognize whoever they're with. Hoping for a senator's appearance at a backwater, redneck hole in the ground.

The camera is borrowed from work. Harold says if you lose this one, it's coming out of your wages. You set it up and lean back to wait this out. You will not think about Flip.

_You Will Not Think About Him._

The meeting lasts over an hour. In that time, you imagine every awful thing that could happen to Flip in that bar. You are nauseous. You're exhausted. Your ribs hurt. You want to go home. You want to crawl into bed beside Flip and touch every part of him just to assure yourself he is whole.

They walk out together. Daryl Chambers and State Senator Newton Ramsey of Louisiana.

You jump into place behind the camera, snap photo after photo. Your hands are tingling. Your boss is gonna flip. This is it. It's like a lightning rod in your gut, a dull throb of something indescribable that tells you that you're gonna have what you need to wrap this up. You'll have it this month. After all this time, you'll finally have enough to write it.

Flip didn't come outside with them, but you're not worried because no-one else has escorted them either. The rest of the crew are still drinking.

You slip out of the car and circle the building.

Luke is out back, as he said he would be. He's pale and twitchy under the bare lightbulb that illuminates the back door. He holds his palms up as you approach.

“Abby, I can't do this anymore.”

He's whispering so loud you can hear it across the lot.

You shush him and jog to his side. You place a hand on his arm, quieting him. You dip your head close to his, let him feel the ghost of your hair across his cheek.

“You're doing fine, Luke. It'll be over soon. You'll be careful and no-one will ever know unless you want them to. I've never revealed a source. No matter what you do, what you're involved in, you'll be safe.”

_Except for the undercover detective I'm currently dating... shit._

Luke calms at your words, or at least stops fidgeting as much.

“Look, I didn't understand half of what they were talking about in there anyway. All this election shit, campaign trails and political stuff, it goes right over my head.”

“That's OK, just tell me as much as you can. I'll confirm it before I do anything else.”

“They're looking to scare the opposition is all... make it hard for anyone to compete with him. He promised law changes, stuff we've been after for years. Dad promised stuff too, disruption at opposition rallies. They talked about what would happen if scare tactics didn't work. We lost a shipment of C4, Abby, but we have more, you know?”

There's a swell of noise from inside the bar and Luke jumps.

You nod, quickly.

“Luke, you're a fucking hero, you know that?” You squeeze his shoulder, “I'm gonna dig around and see what I can find. I'll call you in a few days. Just lay low until then. Hard part's over, OK?”

He seems reassured as you push him back inside. When he's gone, you sneak back around the building into your car. You are buzzing with nervous energy as you start the engine.

The passenger door opens and a dark shape fills your vision.

Your scream curdles the air.


	8. For What?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> OK... I did try to warn you that this gets dark...  
> But 'the' scene in this chapter might be my favourite thing I've ever written. It's horrible, it's painful, and I am in love with it. 
> 
> Now I'm going to go away and pretend I don't imagine, and then write, these awful, awful things.

A huge palm clamps over your mouth. You bring your hand up and dig your thumb into the nerve of your attacker's wrist. You twist and lean back against the door for support so you can kick out. There's a knife in your boot and you draw it, avoiding the strong arms that are reaching for your shoulders.

You slash with it.

Long fingers wrap your wrist and the knife hits the roof of the car.

You struggle and the panic engulfs you. He's saying something, over and over, but you can't hear it.

You are in a survival vortex.

He pulls the knife from your hand. He is too strong. You wrench and twist and then he's on top of you, pressing you against the door, pushing his mouth to your ear. You fight hard.

“Open your eyes, Abby. Godammit! Look at me. Look!”

 _Not this. Not now_.

You gasp for air.

You think you're saying 'no', but you might be cursing or pleading. You can't hear anything over the rushing sound in your ears.

The hand on your wrist softens its vice-like grip. There is a familiar smell of woodsmoke and something spicy. It's a warmth you recognise.

_Oh no, no, no._

He's holding you down. His cheek is pushed to yours. He is talking low and soft in your ear, saying your name, his name, telling you you're safe. His thumb rubs soothing circles over your wrist where his fingers had squeezed hard.

_Oh fuck. Did you just try to stab him?_

A hot lump forms in your throat as your breathing slows.

You will not cry. You tighten the muscles of your stomach, trying to remind yourself that you are, in fact, a badass. But the action pulls at the tear in your side and you wonder if you did some damage in that mindless scuffle.

When you are quieter, Flip lifts his face from your cheek and stares down at you. His hair falls into his eyes and you want to push it back. Your fingers itch to touch him. You don't move a muscle.

Slowly, he sits up and you mirror him, hands in your lap, breathing loud. You stay that way for so long the windows start to fog.

“Can you drive?” he asks, eventually, in the most detached voice you've ever heard him use.

_Don't you dare cry._

You nod, not trusting your voice, and start the engine. He scans the parking lot as you pull out. He says nothing until you are half-way back to the city.

“You OK?”

You nod again.

He lifts a hand from his lap and, for a moment, you think he will put it on your thigh. You long for the contact, the warmth and solidity of him. But he drops his hand again and you don't turn to look at him. Neither of you looks at the other.

You don't know where you're going. His place? Yours? The station?

Well, unless he's going to arrest you for attempted murder with a pocket knife, then you're going home. You ache all over, your skin is itching and you want nothing more than to curl up in your small bed and cry until morning. You take the exit for your place.

He finally looks at you as you make the turn, but you stare straight out the windshield, eyes on the road.

Outside your building, the old motor ticks as it cools down.

“Are you coming inside?” you ask the steering wheel.

_Christ, did you have to sound so scared?_

Flip looks at his hands, “You sure you want me to?”

You don't say anything. You just get out of the car.

He follows a few steps behind you the whole way to your front door. Reproach is rolling off him in waves. You see it in the way he still refuses to look at you, in the tightness of his body, the way he holds himself tall above you. You feel like a child he is chastising and he hasn't spoken a word yet.

The anger begins to form in the elevator, but once you open the door to your apartment, that thrum of defensive fury is raging inside you. By the way he slams the door closed behind you, you guess he is feeling it too.

You turn and lift your chin to look up at him. He's standing close, arms crossed over his chest, looming over you.

“What were you thinking?” his voice is deceptively quiet.

“I was thinking about doing my job. You?” You cross your arms too, but his eyes flick down your body and you remember you are wearing cut-off jeans and cowboy boots and a tiny t-shirt. You stamp on the feeling of humiliation that curls in your gut and wait for his response.

“I was thinking what some redneck kid was putting his hands all over you for.”

You blink. He's not gonna make this easy and neither are you.

“Flip.” There is a warning in your voice but his expression remains taut, almost aloof as you talk, “This is what I do and I am onto something,” you gesture to him, “Obviously, the same thing you're onto.”

“You know I can't tell you shit about it.”

“I wasn't asking.”

“Were you hoping? Is that what _this_ is?” He gestures back and forth with a long finger, at your chest, at his own.

You see red. Your hands curl into fists as you bite back the curse that's on the tip of your tongue. Does he think you could use him for information? That what you have with him could mean so little to you? Does he think you're that cold?

Your damn lip starts to quiver and before you know it, you're vision doubles and you have to look away, fighting hard to clear your eyes.

“Aw shit, Abby.” Flip rubs a hand over his jaw. He shoves his other hand in his pocket and you realise he is stopping himself from reaching out, from touching you.

Neither of you knows what to say next but you are absolutely certain that if you can't bring him around now, this is where it will end.

You know it.

“Flip, I've been tracking this story for months. I'm so close I can taste it-”

“No story is worth your fucking life, Abby.” His voice hardens as he cuts you off, but he doesn't raise it much, “you can't walk into a bar full of jumped up, gun-toting rednecks with only a pocket knife for protection.”

“That's my job, Flip” You set your mouth in a tight line, “And don't tell me that you're not doing exactly the same thing. You were there too. You were in the goddamn room with them!”

“That is _nowhere near_ the same thing. I have years of training, back-up, a whole department at my disposal.”

 _Liar_.

“Do you?”

He freezes, stares at you like he's seeing someone else.

You wish you could reverse time and take that back. You wish it so hard your eyes close.

But it's too late.

_It's over._

He might as well know everything.

You open your eyes.

“You think an investigative reporter routinely interviews rookies like Ron at CSPD? I was fishing. Ron might have been too smart to give me anything, but I am a good fucking journalist, Flip. I know your department was ordered off the Klan.”

Flip is statue-still.

You make your point.

“Whatever you're doing now, it's not official. It's personal. Same as me.”

“So you _were_ working me.”

“Stop it,” you whisper, voice trembling, “You're not the story. You're not a source. You're...”

“I'm what?”

You wonder how it is possible that such an expressive face could show no hint of emotion in this moment.

“You're someone who can understand why this is important. That this matters. And that I have to keep going, even if it's dangerous. CSPD is protecting the Klan. David Duke doesn't have enough political power to pull that kind of maneuver. I'm about to scoop who does, and when I have the financial trail that leads from a KKK weapons haul to a State Senator, I will use it tear him down.”

You don't know how else to say it. You won't beg. You're stronger than that.

“Flip, it's my job. It's all I've ever wanted to do. If you can't understand that... then, I don't know what we're doing here.”

He looks at the floor, shifts his weight from his heels to his toes and back again. His mouth is working.

When he shakes his head, you know this is the last time you'll see him.

“Flip, please...”

_So much for not begging._

He looks up, jaw tight, and fixes you with those dark eyes. You know, _you know_ , what he will say next. And you know you'll keep seeing those eyes long after he leaves you.

You steel yourself and meet his level gaze.

“No. This is done.”

You weren't ready. It's a physical lurch when he tells you it's over in such a short, harsh way. Your breath leaves you and you rock backward.

He steps into you, wraps his long fingers around your elbow and holds you in place. His head dips so close to yours that his hair brushes your forehead.

“I watched you die once already.”

He holds up his hand, the shape of a gun pointed at your chin, “I pressed these fingers, to your neck and I felt your heart slow to nothing. If Ron and I had been ten minutes late to that hangar, just _ten fucking minutes_ , then you'd be dead. For what? Some asshole politician swinging an election. I won't watch that again. I can't. Not now.”

You make a sound, high and thin. It's the same sound you made in the hangar, when he pressed his hand to your torn body. You stop immediately, as you had then.

Instead, you nod.

There is nothing else you can say. His decision is made.

He doesn't kiss you goodbye, just slowly eases his fingers off your arm. He's standing so close you can't see his face and you won't look up. He turns on his heel, reaching for his cigarettes as he opens the door.

You're not sure when you moved, you hadn't felt yourself reach out, but now you're grasping his wrist. You don't pull, but you can't seem to let go of him either.

His other hand is holding the open door and he's looking back at your blank face, your upturned eyes.

His jaw is set, like he's in pain.

You need him to know. Even though it's over, even though you know he's built to suspect everything, to doubt everyone, to trust as few people as he can, you need him to know what he means to you. So you say it again.

“It was never work, with you. Not for a second. Not ever.”

The door slams shut and he lifts you, swings you against it. You wrap your legs around his waist.

He kisses you so hard your head knocks off the wood. You don't feel it. His hand snakes up to cover the back of your head. He holds you up with one arm, kisses you harder, desperate and fast.

You tear the top two buttons of his shirt trying to open them. Gasping, you slow your fingers, to pop the rest, pushing the fabric over his shoulders while he scrapes his teeth along your neck.

He jams his hip into you, holding you to the door while he rips his arms out of the sleeves, drags his undershirt over his head.

Then he's back kissing you and you don't care that you can barely breathe. You just want more.

You pull at his belt.

He loosens you from his grip for a moment, but keeps his mouth to yours when he undoes those awful cut-off shorts, tugs them until they fall away.

You raise your arms high.

You can't see his eyes when he pulls your t-shirt free. His hair has fallen forward. You don't push it back. You are afraid he'll stop if you do.

He dips and lifts you again, gentler this time. You feel him pressed against you, his cock lined up.

He is breathing hard. You are breathing fast. _Need_ is all you can hear, all you feel, but he's not moving. He's waiting for you, urgent and certain.

You can't speak, don't trust yourself, so you nod and pull his shoulders, urging him closer.

He goes slow, pressing his forehead to yours until he's seated to the hilt inside you. You only feel how wet you are when he pulls back a little, re-adjusts. You both make a low sound.

After tonight, you will never hear him make that sound again.

You tighten your arms around his shoulders. You rock your hips.

He moves fast then, primal. He makes small, rhythmic noises against your throat, into your mouth. You echo them back to him in the ragged exhales he is pushing from you with each hard thrust.

His arm cushions the blows of your spine against the door. You are clinging to him.

When you cum, you press down on his shoulders so your face comes level with his, pushed back against the frame.

He watches you, moving steadily, until your body softens.

When you come down, you hook your feet together behind him, help him to keep you up. But you drape your arms across his back and rest your head, heavy on his shoulder.

He moves like he has no more time.

Your head lolls with the force he's using to fuck you.

You press your hands into his back, holding onto him. He slams you into the door over and over. His hands protect you, cushion you.

He roars when he cums, pounding into you. It sounds carnal. It sounds bestial. It sounds like pain.

When his hips slow, he holds you in place, unwilling to put you down, knowing what comes next.

You make it easier for him.

You slide down his body, hand him his shirt as he slowly pulls up his jeans.

You are quick to dress, finished before he has risen to his full height.

He can't look at you, resting one fist against the wall beside the door as if he wants nothing more than to punch through the plaster. His other hand is clutching his undershirt, vice-like, and he hasn't bothered to close the buttons on his shirt.

He is so still, the strain showing in his hunched shoulders, his bowed head.

You have seen horrible things, lived them, worked them, cried about them when the job was finished. But this moment, this look on Flips face, this is what you'll remember. You feel like you are made of glass.

Still, you make it easier for him. You reach out and open the door.

He inhales through his nose, deep and loud, but his exhale is short as he steps through into the hall.

_Close your eyes. He's not coming back._

Softly, you shut the door, lean your forehead against it.

The tears come then.

You feel him on the other side, listening to your shaking breath, your stifled sobs. There is the rasp of his palm, flat on the door.

It is a long time before he walks away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning - this fic does get darker, and I mean, really darker.  
> I'm not so sure that I shouldn't just stop right here? 
> 
> It does have a happy ending but there is some seriously uncomfortable stuff coming up.
> 
> Should I skip all the yucky stuff and just put up the epilogue?  
> Should I have another glass of wine and keep writing?  
> I have no idea, but I sure do like Pino Grigio. 
> 
> Apologies in advance.


	9. Made

“You did WHAT?”

Harold's cheeks have reddened. You worry about his blood pressure.

“I searched Daryl Chambers' office, the one at his garage.”

“Alone?”

“I had an 'in'. I took him my car, he put me in there to wait while he fixed it.”

Harold's fists land hard on the table in front of him, he leans on them and breathes hard before he looks up at you.

“We had a deal. No more deep meets without taking Bill with you.”

“Bill would have fucked it up.”

“I don't GIVE A SHIT about fucking it up. I give a shit about your SAFETY. I give a shit about getting a call at 3am telling me that my youngest reporter, a fucking WOMAN, is fighting for her life because she cannot follow a simple fucking rule – NO SOLO DEEP MEETS!”

His chins quiver when he roars but you don't flinch. He yells at his secretary this exact same way when his coffee has too little sugar in it. Anyway, that rule doesn't seem to apply to any other reporter working here, just the one with tits.

You bite your tongue.

“His books for the last eight months are missing. All the rest were there, he's actually quite neat for white trash, but the last eight months were just gone. The previous book ended in January and still had pages left. He's hiding them... very badly. They're probably in his house.”

“Can you ask the kid?”

“No. I've asked him enough. He's getting spooked.”

“ _I'm_ getting fucking spooked, Abby.”

You look up.

Harold's voice is soft. You've never heard that tone from him before.

“Look, sweetheart, I've always known you're ambitious, you're going places, but I've never seen you like this before. I had thought this whole shooting business would make you more cautious, but it's like you're trying to prove something these last few weeks.”

“I'm trying to write this up, Harold, I'm trying to bring this goddamn story to a close. I'm trying to score the Gazette a fucking scoop. Think you could cut me some slack?”

“No. That's not it,” Harold sits back in his seat, swinging his knees from side to side, “No. You were fine that first month you came back. But now, darlin', you're all over the place. And you look like shit. Are you sleeping? You even eating? I can see the bones of ya'.”

“I'm fine.” You stand. “What I need, is a hotel booking. Tomorrow night, the Brampton. The Senator will be there, with the Shreveport boss. They're booked for dinner. I want a seat at the next table – can you make a call?”

Harold puffs out his cheeks and points at you.

“Bill's going with you.”

You shrug.

“So long as he stays the fuck outta my way.”

*

You feel like somebody's trophy-wife in this dress. It's black with a low neckline and a restrictive waist but it flares out like all the other dresses you see around you. Rich people all dress the same.

The restaurant is busy, but not crowded.

You push the bread basket at Bill and tell him he's got fifteen minutes to eat whatever way he wants but after that, he's gotta try to look like he's not eating at a trough. He's drawn attention to you that way more than once before and you can't afford that tonight.

You hear Flip before you see him.

Your stomach drops so deep and so fast you have to grip the table to keep from doubling over.

_That voice_.

You still hear it at night when you wake, gasping for air that feels like it might never come. But the echo of that gravelly cadence no longer brings you comfort. It just hurts.

You try not to look up as he walks in, arm around the shoulder of Daryl Chambers, laughing like they are best buds.

They cross to the bar, order drinks while they wait for the Senator. They look out of place here. Flip is wearing a suit jacket and jeans. His shoulders are hunched. His hair curls over the collar of his shirt.

You feel sick.

It was supposed to be just the Senator and the Louisiana Boss meeting tonight. Daryl's crew were supposed to be running something over in Knob Hill. You weren't prepared.

Three weeks since you'd seen him and it is not enough time.

You shake your head. You'd barely known him a month before he'd walked away. Because of your job. He's just like all the rest, wanting a wife at home to cook them shit and clean up their crap.

You roll that thought around for a while as you hold your menu close to your face.

It isn't true, you know it, but it's what you have to cling to now.

He sees you.

You can tell because he turns back to the bar, fast, and knocks back his beer like he's in the desert. You watch his neck move.

While you wait for the senator to arrive, you adjust the mic on your thigh and scan the table next to yours. The restaurant has subtly moved the seating positions so that you are close to the long trestle, almost part of it.

There are six places set and you hope that the mic can pick something up over the noise of the restaurant.

“Camera?”

Bill is busy chewing his fourth bread roll but he nods to the floor beside him, where a thin jacket covers the Nikon.

You order your food in a robotic voice. You play with your hair.

You do anything but look at the hulking shape of Flip Zimmerman.

There is a swell of noise when the senator arrives, the Shreveport Klan boss and two men you don't recognise in tow.

At least Flip has the decency to position himself out of your direct line of sight once they're seated at their table.

You're in luck. The senator sits in the seat closest to yours. The mic you have strapped to your thigh, hidden so well by all the extra material in this dress, might actually have a shot of picking something up.

You're unfocused though, distracted throughout their conversation by the sporadic low rumble of Flips short, clipped responses.

You're missing things, things you should be paying attention to. Like whether Daryl Chambers recognises you.

Halfway through dinner, Bill does the one thing you warned him not to. He's busy shoving an oversized forkful of food into his mouth when he sputters, choking on the previous bite he'd yet to swallow.

You're supposed to be his wife.

“Honey?” you say, keeping your voice quiet. If you could stab him with the pocket knife you've hidden next to the mic, you would.

Bill chugs water and coughs some more, nodding his balding head at you.

“Abby?” A new voice calls to you.

_Fuck_.

It's Daryl Chambers. He's seen you. He's getting up out of his seat, coming over to you. Your eyes dart to Flip and his face registers only mild interest before he returns to a conversation he's having with the Senator, effectively distracting him from you.

_Not such a bad liar, after all._

You squirm in your seat, wracking your brain to find a way out of this.

“Mr. Chambers!” You offer him your hand, plastering a fake smile over your grimace. He takes your hand, confused, and you go with the only lie you can think of.

“This is my _husband_ , Bill. This is Daryl Chambers, dear, my mechanic.”

You will the thought into Daryl's head. The bored house-wife, dolled up to look like she's five years younger. The young country boy, Luke, who she plays with when Bill is away.

It's all you can think of to explain how you appeared in Patty's Bar and The Brampton restaurant looking like two different people.

At first, it seems like he's buying it. His face contorts from wariness to predatory amusement, lust to displeasure.

But when you tell Bill how well your car is running these days, the suspicious look returns to his face. He walks away with a nod to Bill, ignores you.

You're made.

The whole Chambers' line of your investigation just got harder to push. You'd have to ask for Luke's help again to get those books because there was no way you were getting in that house now.

_Fucking Bill._

You motion for him to get the cheque and excuse yourself to go to the ladies.

He hands you his jacket. You had almost forgotten and you curse yourself for your lack of focus. You shoot Bill a grateful look and slip your hand around the camera, pressing it to your chest under the jacket as you walk to the toilets.

The heat of Flip's stare follows in your wake.

You snap five or six photos of the table from the crack in the door. You snap one of Flip as he leans back in his seat, running his hands through his hair. You feel the heat rush to your cheeks as you stow the camera and turn down the corridor to the ladies' bathroom.

Inside, you breathe, splash water on your face, check the connection on the mic again.

You are waiting.

For him.

When you open the door to the small corridor that leads to the restaurant, your pulse is pounding.

But the hallway is empty. He didn't follow you. Of course, he didn't.

Colour rises in your cheeks again.

All your hard work, all your efforts to make yourself into the seasoned journalist you had always wanted to be. And here you are, standing outside a toilet, waiting for a man who dumped you to come talk to you when you're supposed to be doing that very job.

You're pathetic.

But this fucking _hurts_. And he is the only person who understands just how much.

You keep your head low as you walk back to the table.

Bill, making himself useful, has already gathered your stuff and is standing, waiting for you. He takes your arm and leads you out into the street.

Through the window, you catch a glimpse of Flip. He's talking to Daryl now. He looks tired.

He meets your eye for a split second before looking away again. You think of the night he had taken a double dose of your pain meds.

_“You're so beautiful that, sometimes, I can't look.”_

You've been shot in the gut before. You'll survive.

*

It's two days before Daryl Chambers makes it known just how made you really are.

The lights in your hallway are out when you step out of the elevator. Nothing new there, you'd wait with bated breath for the super to change the bulbs.

You're exhausted, having stayed at the office to write up the tape notes until your eyes were so tired that the idea of falling asleep on your desk had seemed dangerously comforting.

As you pull your keys from your pocket, your feet crunch on broken glass.

The sound is a siren. Your head snaps up.

Your front door is ajar.

In some distant part of your mind, you know you should run. But you don't. Instead, you push the door inwards.

The apartment is dark, quiet. You lean into the doorframe and scrabble your fingers over the wall until you reach the lightswitch.

Your books are the first thing you see.

Your shelves are overturned and there is paper everywhere. The kitchenette cupboards hang from their hinges and there is glass and smashed plates on the floor. The couch has deep slash marks in the seats, stuffing pooling from the gouges, strung over the broken wood that used to line your walls.

_The walls... Jesus_.

**Niggar Loving HACK Next Time We Won't Miss**

You stand, detailing the scene for way too long. Dimly, you realise they could still be here, waiting for you. But if you walk downstairs to the super and tell him what's happened, he will call the police.

You can't. You just cannot see him. And you know he'll come.

If you go to Cassie's they could follow you. You cannot bring that to her door.

If you call Harold, he will take you off this story so fast your head will spin. You have worked for the last nine months for this scoop. You've lost something precious because of it. You almost lost your life for it. You _cannot_ lose it now.

You need someone who can protect themselves, someone who knows this world and isn't afraid of it. Someone calm under pressure. Someone who can keep a secret.

You walk back down the hall to the payphone and dial a number from memory.

It rings for the longest time but when the phone is answered, it's not the voice you expected, not the voice that this number belongs to.

But you should have known he'd be with her.

“Ron?”

“Abby? You OK?”

“I need your help,” you're surprised by how calm your voice sounds, given how much you are shaking, “and I need you to make sure that Flip doesn't find out.”

*

Ron and Patrice stand in the middle of your destroyed living room. You have packed a bag. It doesn't have much in it.

You wanted your books, but when you had sifted through the debris, your fingers had come away damp and stinking. They'd pissed on them.

Out of all of this, that seems like the worst part.

Patrice looks at the scrawled writing and you try to joke, to ease her mind, because you can't take the look on her face when she reads those awful words.

“I mean, they didn't exactly miss the first time.”

She turns to you, grave and determined.

“Abby, you need to report this.”

Patrice is staring hard at you but you shake your head.

“I can't.”

She looks to Ron, for his support, but he shrugs.

“Alright then, hotshot, let's get you to your safe house.”

You smile but the old nickname makes you feel sad and the safe house is just Ron's couch.

There _is_ somewhere you want to be right now: a sparsely decorated, clapboard house with furniture that is large and comfortable and a bed that is twice the size of yours. You want to curl up in it and feel the heat of a warm, large chest at your back, a hand hovering gently over your stomach. You know that is where you would feel safe. But that is not an option and there is no other word for how that makes you feel.

You are just so, so _sad_.

You don't talk in the car. You sit in the back seat and try not to listen to Ron and Patrice's quiet conversation. You avert your eyes when he reaches across and squeezes her knee.

His apartment is way fancier than yours. He has great decorating taste and you are unsurprised by this. Ron has good taste in everything.

He hands you some blankets and the TV remote. He squeezes your shoulder.

“You all good?”

You nod. You try to muster a smile.

“Thanks, Ron. This is just for tonight. I'll be out of your hair tomorrow.”

He gives you a worried look.

“You can stay for as long as you need, Abby.”

He looks like he wants to say more, and you can _feel_ the name that's on the tip of his tongue.

You brace yourself for it, but it doesn't come. Instead, Ron nods at you and gives Patrice a look as he goes to his bedroom. He chucks her chin as he walks by and the swift, intimate gesture makes you want to cry. 

You think Patrice will wish you goodnight and go to bed, but instead, she goes to the fridge and takes out a bottle of wine. She is the best person you know.

She hands you a glass and sits beside you on the couch, curling her arm around her bent knee. You are suddenly gripped by the idea that you have made her life, her relationship, incredibly hard, just by being here.

“Patrice,” you drop your voice to a whisper, “I just want you to know that I protect my sources.”

She blinks at you, tilts her head, confused.

“I mean, I know you might be nervous about me being here with Ron. But our conversations are protected, I _can't_ reveal them.”

She raises an eyebrow at you.

“Abby, Ron knows everything,” she tilts her chin higher, like she's offended by what you've suggested, “He might not agree with everything I think, everything I do, but I don't lie to my man.”

You blink. The wall takes on an interesting quality and you stare hard at it until the pricking in your eyes has subsided.

“That sounds nice.”

You are talking to yourself, but she smiles.

She takes a sip of her wine, rests the lip of her glass against the round of her chin.

“White people are so stupid.”

“Patrice!” you laugh.

“You are!” She is laughing now too but then she says something that makes you go still and gulp a large mouthful of wine.

“Maybe you should try a little up-front honesty with Flip.”

You shake your head.

“We're not together anymore.”

“Well, I can see why.”

This time, you don't laugh.

Patrice takes another sip and tips her glass toward you.

“Why didn't you just tell him what you were working on?”

“I couldn't. That story was my life for nearly a year. I almost died for it. I couldn't risk the details with someone I'd known for a month. Someone so involved in it.”

She raises her eyebrows high.

“That how you feel about Flip?” she tips her glass toward you again, her expression is hard. You recognise the protectiveness she feels toward him, “Just some guy you knew?”

You sit back with a sigh.

“No.” you're whispering again, “Of course not. He saved my life.”

Patrice scoffs and knocks back a gulp of wine. She looks at the ceiling and then points her glass at you again.

“You know, it's OK just to _know_ , right?” Her voice softens, “That's how it was with Ron, for me.”

You turn toward her in your seat, your bent knees almost touching hers. You don't interrupt.

“I mean, I fought it. I fought hard. I didn't wanna be with a pig, you know?”

You huff out a quiet laugh.

“But that's not how it works. You can't help who you love.”

You close your eyes, rest your head on the couch. You want to know something so badly that you just can't hold back the question.

“Does he ever talk about me?”

“No,” Patrice says, quietly.

You close your eyes.

You're going to cry. You know it.

Were you that easy to move on from? Didn't Flip feel a little bit of that potential, that almost-certain _future_ you had felt?

“He doesn't talk much of anything, since you. He's driving Ron insane. Going for all the dangerous Ops, taking chances, biting the head off anyone who tries to talk to him.”

You open your eyes.

“He's in a bad way, Abby. Just like you.”

She rises from the couch, leaves her glass on the kitchen counter.

“You're welcome here, for as long as you want. But, I think, there's somewhere better you could be.”

She walks into the bedroom and closes the door softly.

There is no doubt in your mind that tomorrow you'll find yourself a new apartment. You cannot stay here. 


	10. Hard-Earned Lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I promise, there is a happy ending here but this chapter contains some uncomfortable stuff. There are references to non-con and simulated non-con so please skip this if it might be a trigger.

The woods are pitch black. You keep stumbling over roots and rotting logs, but there are flames in the distance. The tree trunks are lit with the orange glow of it. It turns your stomach.

But you need these photos. Your article needs to link the senator with the seedy, distasteful underworld that you are trying to shove into the limelight.

You want the photo. You'll get it.

The clearing where they've made their home is on a rise in the woodland, overlooking Stratmoor. The blaze will be seen for miles, a warning, an epitaph, an evolvement. They are getting bolder, knowing their actions will be overlooked by the authorities.

You can hear them. They are so close. There is laughter. You are surprised to hear women's voices.

_This is strange_.

In all the time you've worked this case, the women have stayed home for these events. They are perfect replicas of June Cleaver. There is no room for them at cross burnings.

This is something else.

You creep closer with your borrowed Nikon. You crawl on your belly towards where the circle of light is at it's greatest.

The cross is huge.

You've seen one of these before. It hadn't seemed small then. It would have taken two men to put it up.

But this one is different.

There is a bonfire around it. They have taken time to put this together, more than a couple of hours.

By your count, there are about thirty men present. But there are more on the outskirts and you are too close.

You snap a few pics. They are blurry, you know it already.

You are teetering in indecision, under the cover of underbrush, edging closer to the circle of light. You battle with the urge to get the shot, and the fear of what they will do to you if they discover you.

You wonder if Daryl Chambers is here. If any of these men would know who you were.

You hear a moan. It's a female voice, one you don't recognise.

There.

At the opposite edge of the circle is a young woman. Her hair is long and dark. She is on all fours at the edge of the circle. There is interest around her, several of the men have turned to her.

There is shuffling, urging, shoving, maneuvering.

You feel sick.

You see the look between two other young women closer to the fire. That look that says they are in over their heads. That they don't know what to do next. How to get out. That look that says they don't know if getting out is a possibility they should even want.

And suddenly the circle around the fire is alive with male bodies, smaller, lither ones in between them. There is no struggle, not physically. But you can feel the tension, the fear, from where you lie.

The men cajole each other, hoot and urge each other on.

You can't snap this. Harold won't publish it.

“Well, what do we have here?”

The voice is so close, right above you. You had been so intent on the shot that you hadn't heard anything.

_Stupid. Stupid. Stupid._

You scramble for your knife. A boot lands hard in the centre of your back. Your breath leaves you as you hit the ground but you twist and knock the heavy leg away, reaching for your back pocket.

The boot rears up and kicks you hard in the stomach.

You curl inwards. You can't breathe. The pain in your side flares outward and down your legs.

There are hands under your arms, hauling you up roughly. You can't scream, you can't get enough air into your lungs.

There are two of them. One holds your arms back at a painful angle, while the other stares at you, drunken eyes thinned to slits to examine your face in the firelight.

“Well, ain't you a pretty thing?”

Your stomach drops. How could you have let this happen?

Harold was right. You're too close to this, too willing to take risks.

You need to focus, to find a way out. Your camera has fallen into the bushes and you are so, so grateful that it's not caught around your neck.

“Thank you,” you drawl, “I was actually looking for someone. Do you know Luke?”

“The kid?”

“Yeah, I thought he might be here. We come here sometimes.”

The arms holding you tighten, there is screaming pressure in your shoulders. You can't see him, but you feel him push his hips against your ass and he leans down to talk in your ear.

“Oh, I think I can show you a better time that the kid ever could.”

You don't know what to do. You want to scream, cry, run. You can't do anything but stare as the drunken man in front of you laughs and then leers at you.

“Hey!” The voice growls from close behind you, a dark warning.

_Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God._

“What the fuck are you two doing?”

The arms holding you are pulled away. You stumble and Flip catches you, holds you up, away from him.

“We just found her, sneaking around out here. She says she's here for Luke.”

“Yeah? Well, Luke's not here.”

Flip glares at the drunken man. The other one seems to have backed away and when you search for him you see a reedy, tall frame, rejoining the group in the firelight.

“I got this,” Flip says to the drunk, “you head on back.”

“Aw, well now, Karl, I think we should take this little snooper up to the Boss and see what he thinks.”

Flip narrows his eyes, stares hard. With his attention not on you, you find yourself riveted by his face. His skin glows in the firelight. There are puffy, dark circles under his eyes.

But there are other voices now, growing nearer.

Reedy Guy is returning, with three others.

You turn on your heel, go to run. But Flip's arm comes round your middle and he hauls you back against him.

He is so warm, so solid against your back. There is such _comfort, s_ uch safety in the protective arm that encircles you.

His hand tightens, a warning.

You struggle, make a show of trying to get free.

“What's going on?”

The voice is thin, high, accented. It's not the Shreveport Boss but you've heard it before. He was at the table in the Brampton.

Flip's voice is stern, backed by a sharp, masculine threat. You've never heard him speak this way.

“We got ourselves a peeper. I'm going to take her out there, where you faggots can't rubberneck, and teach her what curiosity does to pussies.”

There is laughter, harsh and snorting. Flip squeezes you again and you kick and flail like your life depends on it. Because it does.

He lifts you off the ground. You kick the air.

You scream.

He clamps a hand over your mouth and starts walking with you toward the trees, to the relative safety of the dark woods.

“Now if you'll all excuse us...”

You scream some more. It's met with laughter. Reedy Guy, claps Drunk Guy on the shoulder and they turn back towards the cross. The other three stand where they are.

Flip walks you into the forest, as far as he can go without losing the sound of them.

He sets you down in front of a thick tree truck, cages you in with an arm over your head.

You both catch your breath.

_You will die from this_.

You will die right here in front of him. The fear, the humiliation, the need to reach out and touch his face to comfort yourself, to comfort him. The _want_ , it will kill you right here.

You wrap your hands around the tree trunk behind you, meet his stony gaze with your own, the coldest you can muster.

“Scream,” he tells you.

You roar into the darkness. You keep screaming until he puts a hand over your mouth.

“Are you OK?”

You shake your head, his hand still covering your lips. You are not OK. You are _so_ not OK.

You are broken.

He takes his hand away from you, slowly.

There is the sound of a twig snapping, somewhere beyond the line of trees. Flips tilts his head but does not turn to look.

When he meets your eye, you barely recognise him.

He reaches down, skims your lower back. You gasp, but his hand dips lower, brushing over you, patting you down. He reaches into your back pocket. He pulls your pocket knife, flicks it open, presses it into your hand as it clutches the bark.

His eyes meet yours, an expressive stare. He is trying to tell you something.

Your own eyes widen. You shake your head, over and over.

_I can't. I won't._

His foot nudges your legs apart. His hand comes to the neck of your blouse. He dips until his forehead touches yours. He rips hard.

“Scream, Abby.”

You scream, guttural and harsh and painful. He pushes against you, right in the middle of your shrieking wail for help, so the air huffs hard out of you. You know what this sounds like. You know the show he is giving whoever is listening in those trees.

“How far is your car?” He whispers into your hair.

“Five minutes, three at a sprint.” Your voice is shaking.

“Can you run?”

“Yes.”

He nods, you feel the hardened line of his mouth on your temple.

“Scream again,”

He pushes into you, your scream is ragged, disrupted by the sharp drive of Flips body against yours.

It turns into a sob. Your cry catches in your throat, releases high and trembling into the quiet woods.

He stills suddenly. His arms come around you and he is breathing into your hair.

“I'm so sorry, babygirl,”

You allow yourself this one second, just this once.

Your fingers unhook from the bark they are clinging to. You wrap them around his waist, under his warm flannel shirt, stifling your mouth against his chest. You are still holding the knife, angled away from him. You close your eyes and everything drops away.

There are no woods, no Klan, no-one watching. There is just him, and you inhale hard into the warmth of him.

_Come with me. Come with me. Come with me._

But you know he can't.

You pull back. Your moment is over. He can't afford another.

As you back away, he grabs your wrist, turns it so the knife meets his skin. He grunts as it slices a shallow trench under his ribs. You have just enough time to recognise that the cut is in the exact same spot as your scar.

“No!”

You can't help the scream that echoes around you, it comes from you without thought. You are just glad it wasn't his name.

Flip slams his fist into the tree above your head. His eyes squeeze shut. He shakes his head and then raises it, not looking at you, looking up, up into the night sky. He looks like he might be sick.

“Yes, you fucking bitch! You fucking take it!” He says it loud enough to be heard in the clearing, his mouth screwed up like he means it, like it's real.

You're going to vomit.

What have you done to him?

He looks down but he can't meet your eye.

“Duck down, go round the tree and run. I'll buy us some time.”

“Flip...”

You don't know what to say.

But that's not true. You _do_ know. You know the words. They are on the tip of your tongue and you think he can _hear_ them even though you will never let them loose from your lips.

“Go,” he orders and his voice is tight, “Go, Abby.”

You duck. You slide around the tree on your knees. You run.

In the background, after more than a minute, you hear him grunting, calling out.

“You fucking BITCH,” and, after another minute, “She fucking stabbed me!” and “No, I don't know that fucking cunt!”

_Oh God, someone recognised you._

You reach the car, scramble behind the wheel and then you are driving, driving, driving.

You have absolutely no idea where you are going as long as it is far away. Far from his voice, far from those words in his mouth, far from the sound of his hard-earned lies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, well that was pretty horrible to write but I promise, that was the worst of it.


	11. Deja Vu

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Grand Finale... with some more Star Wars Original series references. :-)

You almost miss the turn for Ron's apartment. You cannot catch your breath. Somehow, the further away you get from the circle, the more afraid you feel.

Patrice opens the door, takes in your tattered clothes, the dirt from the forest floor on your skin and in your hair.

She shouts for Ron, pulls you inside.

“What happened?”

Patrice walks you to the couch.

You want to talk, you do. But you can't seem to stop shivering and your teeth are snapping together so fast and hard that you think they'll break.

Ron walks away, comes back with a large glass of bourbon. You drink most of it in one go, feel the heat burn through your chest.

“Ron,” you don't recognise your voice, “You need to tell me everything.”

He doesn't say anything, just watches you.

“This isn't a story. I don't give a shit about the story. Flip needs help. Right now.”

Ron looks at Patrice, then back at you.

“Where is he?”

You blink.

“You don't know? I thought you were working the KKK stuff together?”

Ron sighs and rubs his forehead.

“We were, at the start. But we were just monitoring. We didn't make an arrest until we found you that day in the airfield. But the last few weeks, he's been... doing things on his own, getting deeper in with them. He's... not himself.”

Your eyes open so wide you feel your hairline move.

“So he's on his own out there?”

Ron nods.

You tell him everything. You give him the details of your story, everything you have found to date. You tell him what happened at the cross burning and how Flip had gotten you out and how someone had recognised you and how he's now injured with his cover possibly blown in the company of thirty drunk, armed klansmen.

Ron says nothing for most of it and Patrice comes to sit beside you when you describe what you saw in the woods.

You are afraid. You are so afraid. Ron goes to the phone and calls Flip's house. No answer. He calls his work extension. No answer.

“We have to go find him”

Ron shakes his head. “We can't.”

Your grip on the glass you're holding tightens so much you think it might shatter.

“If I call this in,” Ron explains, “Flip could lose his job. If we drive around looking in all the usual places for where he is, none of us are going to be able to get to him without shooting the place up, in which case, we all lose our jobs.”

“Who gives a fuck?” you shout, “They could kill him!”

“I know, Abby. But we can't get to him. Flip has talked his way out of a lot of bad spots. He'll talk himself out of this one.”

You shake your head, fast

“Ron these Shreveport guys, they're a whole new level of awful.”

Ron raises a hand to calm you.

“He's due to start the early shift in two hours. If he's not there, Jimmy and I will go to the Chief.”

“That's not good enough Ron!”

Patrice stiffens, “Have you got a better idea?”

You do. Very suddenly, you know who you need to call.

You dial the number from memory, hope lodged high in your throat.

“Luke,” you say when he picks up.

He doesn't give you time to speak.

“No, Abby. I can't tell you anything else, it's too dangerous-”

He's not whispering, which means he's alone in the house. At 4am, that is not a good sign. Where is his father?

“Luke stop, I need your help. This is the last thing I'll ever ask you.”

There is silence from his end of the line. You take it as acceptance. Because it needs to be.

“The new guy, Karl, do you know where he is right now?”

“Yeah, Abby, I know,” he sighs.

He sounds defeated and you taste bile in your throat. He knows who Flip is, you can feel it.

“Is he OK?”

There is silence for so long that you feel faint. The room starts to disappear.

“No, probably not. He's at Patty's, in the basement. My dad's there with the Shreveport Boss. I'll help you get him out.”

Luke's truck is loud. He'd built it from scrap parts and it shows.

You make him park a half-mile from the bar because you don't want the noise of the engine to be recognised by anyone in there. It's imperative that no-one sees him.

Ron and Patrice follow behind but pull ahead to the edge of the lot when Luke parks, so you can make a quick getaway. Patrice refuses to stay with the car when Ron asks her to. Instead, she pulls a gun from her shoulder bag and gives him a look that brooks no argument.

Luke leads you to the back door of Patty's but instead of stopping there, he slinks along the building to a side entrance you hadn't seen the last time you were here. It is pitch black outside but beyond the line of trees that edge the lot, you can see the skyline brightening with the first touch of dawn.

You can tell he doesn't want to go inside, he stands with his shoulders slumped by the door, but when Ron nods at him to move aside, he pulls himself up.

For a moment, you wonder if some of that awful bigotry he's been raised with will filter through, but instead, he nods at Ron and whispers.

“I'm coming with you.”

You grab Luke's arms and shake your head. If his father sees him here, he can never go home again.

“It's OK,” he tells you, his voice barely a breath, “It's time I did something.”

You look to Ron and he nods once then opens the doors carefully, silently.

Beyond, the hallway is obscured by heavy darkness. Ron holds his gun high at his shoulder and steps forward.

Up ahead, a sliver of pale yellow light stretches thin across the wooden floor. The basement door is closed and Ron takes one side of it, motions for Luke to take the other.

Patrice moves a step in front of you and raises her gun. For the first time in your life, you wish you had one too.

Ron turns the handle, it creaks slightly. He pushes the door.

It doesn't budge. With a sigh, he pushes harder. Nothing. Is it locked?

Luke shoves his shoulder against it and it opens with a jolt.

Everyone freezes, waiting for the answering racket of three klansmen coming to check out the noise. But nothing happens.

After a few moments, Ron slips into the open doorway, down a steep set of stairs. Luke follows, and you throw yourself after them.

Patrice stays in the doorway, listening hard.

The basement is deserted except for the lone chair in the middle of the open space.

Flip is tied to it, hands and feet bound to the arms and legs.

His face is bloodied, one eye swollen shut, lip split and shirt soaked through with dark, drying blood at his side.

He looks up at the noise, lets his head fall back with a sigh when he sees Ron taking the stairs two at a time. He doesn't notice you until you are on your knee's beside him, cutting the thick ties with your knife.

“Abby... what are you doing here?” he says quietly, slurring and exasperated, but it sounds like thunder in the silent room. You put your fingers to his lips. They come away sticky with blood.

Ron takes the knife from you and hacks at the ropes on Flip's other side. When he is free, he slumps forward and you force your shoulder against his chest to hold him upright.

Ron and Luke take an arm each and haul him up.

At the top of the stairs, Patrice crosses to the other side of the hallway to let them pass, gun trained back down the corridor towards the main bar. There is the sound of men's voices, loud and boisterous, arguing with each other.

They are close.

The exit seems a million miles away with the way Ron and Luke struggle under Flips considerable frame.

Luke turns to you, grabs your hand and pulls you closer. He shoves Flip's arm around your shoulders. Flip's weight shifts toward you and you struggle to help him stand.

Without a word, Luke edges back down the corridor, away from you and toward his father, pulling a small pistol from his waistband.

You can't call to him, can't reach without letting Flip fall.

Ron is staring back at the kid's retreat, eyes hard. He turns to you and shakes his head. You both pull Flip along the corridor to where Patrice is waiting by the open door. She ducks out to check that there's no-one outside, then races to the car at the edge of the parking lot.

Flip is silent, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other.

You want to comfort him, to tell him he can do this, that it will be over soon, to send him a constant stream of words the way he had for you. But you can't risk the noise so instead, you twine your fingers with his. His head turns to you but you can't read his expression, it's too dark and his face is too swollen.

Patrice pulls the car up outside and Flip braces himself against it while Ron opens the door. You try to step back, to let him climb in, but he holds on to your hand and you have to catch the frame of the door to stop from falling on top of him in the back seat. He slides across the seat, arm outstretched to keep your hand in his.

You follow him in and he pulls you into his side, leaning his head back against the seat, eyes rolling and only half conscious.

Ron jumps the hood and slams himself into the passenger seat. The car lurches forward and races out of the lot, back toward the city.

“They told me they'd caught you,” Flip says to the roof. His head lolls until his bloodied chin is resting in your hair. His arms come around you and he pulls you tighter against him. He's mumbling something but you can't make out the words. You don't even care what they are because you're hearing them in his deep, exhausted rumble. He's alive, he's safe and you get it now.

This is what he was feeling when he told you he couldn't watch you put yourself in danger.

You tuck yourself against him gingerly, trying not to lean any weight on him. You let yourself murmur soft sounds into his neck.

He's unconscious by the time you arrive at Mercy.

*

“You don't have enough.”

Harold is staring at you, holding the piece you've written, the sad culmination of almost a years' hard effort.

You know you don't have enough.

A few pictures of a Senator talking with a local klansman does not prove a conspiracy. You have nothing to show the financial link.

The police had raided Luke's home after Patty's Bar and any chance of you had of finding the missing books had vanished. You hoped the kid was OK. From what you could gather from the press releases, the police had found two bodies in the main bar. One high-ranking Shreveport klansman had been shot by Daryl Chamber's gun and Daryl himself had died from blood-loss, a wound to his femoral artery made by the victim's own knife. Luke had disappeared.

Your attempt to defend your work is quiet and half-hearted.

“The photos show him talking with a known Klan Boss, there's transcripts of his conversations giving rally times and dates for the opposition to Chambers, there's Luke's intel and what I witnessed myself.”

“It's not enough, Abby”

Harold continues staring, like you're a puzzle he's trying to work out.

“You have enough here to bring down some heat on the CSPD but this piece barely mentions them, other than the raids they carried out. Why is that?”

You shrug.

“That was never the focus,” you say, suddenly finding the view from Harold's office to be worthy of particular interest.

“Well,” he shuffles the papers and lets them lie flat on the table in front of him, “It's the focus now, because I can't publish this without more substantial evidence.”

He gives you a challenging look.

“Write up the CSPD angle, Abby.”

You're shaking your head as you stand. You won't write it.

Without a backward glance, you leave the Gazette, and the last year of your life, behind.

*

It's been over a week since you'd pulled Flip from the basement of Patty's bar.

You hadn't stayed in the hospital after the cops had arrived. You and Patrice didn't fit with Ron's cover story so she'd driven you home to your shitty new apartment.

She's gone straight back to Ron, faking ignorance of the events they'd just been through together.

You'd called her once, the next day, to find out how Flip was doing. Apart from a fractured cheekbone, a concussion, and badly bruised ribs, Patrice said he was doing fine. You'd wanted to know if he'd asked for you, if you could visit, but you couldn't bring yourself to form the question.

The thing was, deep down, you knew nothing had changed. Flip still felt the way he felt and so did you.

So you stayed away. You made it easier.

That's what you planned to keep doing, until you found him standing outside your new apartment, an old army canvas bag over one shoulder and his hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket.

You stop in the street when you see him, frozen in place.

“Hey, Abby,” he says.

His eye is healing well and the swelling in his cheek is gone.

You want to run to him. You want to cling to him. You want to touch every part of him and beg him to do the same. You stay entirely still.

“Hey, Flip.”

Your mind is blank. You literally cannot think of one thing to say.

You're pretty sure that _I would throw my entire life out the window for you_ or _I have never felt about anyone the way feel about you_ , won't cut it here in the street.

You fish your keys from your pocket and he moves back so you can pass him.

“How'd you find my new place?” you ask as you walk to the doors.

He's watching you. You can feel the heat of his stare.

“I'm a detective.”

You don't need to look to see the ghost of his smile. You can feel the tug of it in your belly, the warmth of that rolling baritone you'd know anywhere.

He reaches out to hold the door open for you, his arm above your head. The nearness of him makes you freeze but you force yourself to walk through into the lobby.

He follows you and you let out a breath you didn't know you were holding.

You wait in silence for the elevator. When you glance at him, he is looking at the floor, moving his weight from foot to foot, still with the same echo of a smile. You look at the floor too.

His hand hovers over the buttons inside, “What floor are you on?”

You have deja vu. It makes your response sound breathy.

“Fourth. Apartment 32”

He's just so _large_. Standing next to him in such a small space is making you hyper-aware of his body, the size of him, the strength, the way his chest moves beneath the plaid shirt he's wearing. You're surrounded by the smell of woodsmoke, the tang of Marlboroughs and the musky, male scent of his warm skin.

He tilts his head when you inhale a deep lungful. You don't meet his eye.

There are boxes lining the walls of your apartment. You had salvaged what you could from your old place but you haven't unpacked anything but the basics yet. This apartment is even smaller and dingier than your last and you figure, after today, you'll probably have to bunk with Cassie until you find a new job anyway, so it isn't worth the effort of unpacking.

Your new living room has a table, although it's just a small formica three-leg with two padded chairs.

Flip sits in one and stretches out his legs, crossed at the ankle. He puts his canvas bag on the table with a thump, tries to catch your full attention.

“Why haven't you come to see me, Abby?”

You can't meet his eyes, you focus on the lines that looking up at you have made in his forehead.

“I didn't know what to say.”

He raises his eyebrows even further, takes a deep, unhurried breath and suddenly you are talking like a broken faucet, pumping quiet words to the floor at his feet.

“I'm so sorry, Flip. If I hadn't gone to the cross burning, if I hadn't tried to get that photo, then those guys would never have made you and you wouldn't have gotten hurt and I'm just so _sorry_ and I just couldn't come say that to you when it seems like so little-”

He's up. He's standing in front of you, so close you can only see his dark, damp hair curling against the collar of his shirt.

“It wasn't your fault,” he says and you can feel his breath at your hairline, “I got made by one of the Shreveport Guys who knew me outta Denver. They'd been watching me since The Brampton.”

You look up, eyes wide and hot.

“If you hadn't been there, I'd probably be dead now,” he shrugs.

You are crying. You try to swipe at your cheeks but Flip catches your hand and swipes his thumb gently over your cheek instead. His touch is rough and warm and you lean into it.

He brings his forehead to yours and every nerve you have is concentrated on the amount of space between your lips and his.

“I brought you something,” he says and then steps away from you, pulling you with him toward the table. He taps the bag.

“Open it,” he tells you and then sits back down to watch you. He's so large that you worry about the spindly legs of your cheap-ass chair.

You reach for the bag, eyes flicking between it and Flip.

Inside, you find a large beige, very familiar log-book. Your hand is shaking when you pull it out. Daryl Chambers' cooked books. The ones that will show who bought the bullet that almost killed you. The bullet that brought you here, to this moment, to this man.

“Oh, Flip...”

You don't know what to say.

He's smiling at you, that lopsided half-grin that you love.

You take a step closer and he opens his knees, hands coming to your hips to urge you to stand between his legs.

It's the easy way he does it, that familiar, laid-back confidence, that steadies you. It feels like those awful weeks without him are melting away. The whole world is melting away until it's just you and him and the circle of his body around yours.

You put your hands on either side of his face, lean into him.

“Flip,” you whisper. You don't hesitate like you thought you would, but you do close your eyes, “I love you.”

He nudges your nose with his own and holds his face back from yours so you can meet his soft gaze.

“Say that again with your eyes open.”

You do exactly as he says.

He leans in and kisses you, soft and slow.

“I love you.” He says it like you haven't said it first, like an echo, like a confirmation of something you already knew.

Later he will tell you that he did, in fact, say it first. That he'd mumbled it over and over in the back seat of Ron's car, whispered again and again, through swollen, bleeding lips.

But now he's standing and you are pressed together. His hands are hauling you against him so hard you worry for his bruised ribs.

And Flip does everything his power to calm those fears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One sickly-sweet, smut-filled epilogue to go...


	12. Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for all the fluffiness of this chapter but I want a happy ending. Sue me.

Three weeks in Mexico has left you with a deep tan, a flimsy new nightdress and a host of new recipes to try.

It's also left you with a pack full of photos of the trafficking ring you're about to expose.

You stand in your kitchen and stir the meaty chili you've been cooking. You're home two days early and you know Flip's not working late tonight because you'd asked Jimmy to make sure of it.

You'd lasted about a week before agreeing to move in with Flip. He wasn't one to take no for an answer. He'd let you change the colour of his walls, display your art and your photo's, and he'd made room for you in his closet full of flannel. He'd told you it would only feel like home once you'd been 'together' in every room. Then, he promptly proved that theory, in quick succession.

When you look up, you're smiling at the memory and Flip is standing in the doorway, watching you. He's early. You're not wearing the filmy, see-through negligee you wanted to surprise him with.

You're wearing his shirt and swaying to Stevie Nicks as you cook him dinner.

He does not seem to mind.

He strides across the room and you jump to meet him, wrapping your legs around his waist.

He sets you on the counter and kisses you, deep and long. Your head spins with it.

“Hey, honey,” you say when he finally lets you breathe.

“Hey, babygirl, you're home early.”

“I missed you.”

“I missed _you_.” He slides you forward to the edge of the counter and rocks his hips against you, slow and soporific. When you run your hands along his arms, he tenses them for you and you kiss his neck with a smile.

“I made you dinner,” you tell him, laughing as you curl your fingers in his hair.

“Good, we'll be hungry later.”

He lifts you and you giggle as you cling to his shoulders. He runs a line of kisses along your neck and your laughter disappears.

He walks you to the bedroom.

“What's this?”

He leans down, still holding you, and picks up the thin slip of sheer fabric you'd laid out.

“A present,” you tell him, looking at him through your lashes in the way you know he likes.

He sets you on your feet, looks down at you. Takes his hands to his sides.

“Put it on.”

His tone sends thrills through your whole body.

“Yes, Officer,” you say as you open your eyes wide and slip his shirt off your shoulders. You're wearing nothing but underwear beneath and his eyes drop straight to your breasts. You stand straighter so he can have a better view of your tan lines while you slip the sheer fabric over your head.

He catches your wrists in one large hand. The fabric falls over your eyes as he leans down to capture your nipple in his mouth. Your knees go weak.

“Flip...”

He wraps his free hand around your waist, holds you steady.

His mouth moves to your other breast, rolling the point between his tongue and teeth and now you are breathing hard.

He lifts you and lays you on the bed. He presses the fabric down over your eyes again, your hands twisted in the thin straps.

“God, I missed you,” he says as he trails kisses over your skin.

He moves from one part of you to another, your clavicle, the side of your breast, your ribs, your lips. You can't tell where his mouth will land next.

He licks the hollow of your hip-bone, his facial hair scratches. Your pelvis jerks in response.

In a flash, he has pulled your underwear away and your knees squeeze his shoulders until he eases them flat against the bed.

“Thought I could drag this out, babygirl, but it's been weeks,” he says as he presses his lips to your belly, just below your navel.

“Oh Jesus, Flip, please...”

His mouth finds you in response. He licks a long stripe with the flat of his tongue and you cry out, raise your hips off the bed.

His hands wrap around your thighs, pressing you back into the mattress.

“Fuck, I missed this,” he mumbles against you and then he is working you, over and over, licking and sucking and you cannot breathe with how good it feels to have him there.

His hand slides up your thigh, leaves it -

-and then his finger is pressing into you and it has been so long that it seems to fill you entirely. You buck into it, into his mouth, his hand, whatever you can reach of him.

He moans, low and long, and that is all it takes.

You are flying, you are screaming, you are wanting so much more.

He gives it to you. He hunches over you, pulls the fabric of your nightdress away from your face, throws it across the room and kisses you hard.

Your hands scrabble at his clothes, he helps you to pull them away.

He is so hard that when you touch him he has to lean forward over you, brace himself against the headboard.

You want to bring your mouth down but he has other plans. He slips a arm beneath your hips and turns you over, pulling you to all fours. You are moaning already, anticipating.

“Sorry, baby, this will be quick. You're just so fucking beautiful... sexy... fucking _mine_...”

He pushes into you, fast. Too fast.

He's huge, your breath leaves you in a cry that more than amplifies his own grunt of relief.

He stills, holds himself steady and squeezes your hips with his fingers, soothing you, until he feels you relax around him.

“Good, baby?” he asks, when you have stretched to accommodate him.

“Uh-huh.” Your face is pressed to the pillows, sound is all you've got.

He leans down to kiss your shoulder, then moves slow, pulling out as your walls contract around him. He tries to hold back, the keep his pace easy and deliberate but he is hitting that spot inside you that makes you moan and that is a sound you know drives him wild.

Within minutes he is pistoning his hips and he is so deep that every stroke has you gripping the bedsheets, your head hitting the bedframe lightly.

When he gets more intense he pulls you backward on the bed, away from the headboard.

“Christ, you feel so good, so tight. Do you know how much I've wanted this these last few weeks?”

He's talking, so he's close. You reach back and grab his hand, move it to where you want it.

He thrusts harder into you, runs his fingers along the base of his cock as he pulls it from you and then slathers the wetness he finds there over you.

You arch your back, breathe high, hard breaths into the pillows.

“Oh fuuuuuck,” his rhythm falters.

Your feet have come to his hips, everything inside you curling at his touch.

He holds one of your ankles, pushes your body flat onto the bed, fingers sliding hard against you as he jerks his hips to meet yours.

There are sounds now, every time his pelvis meets your skin. Filthy, wet sounds that you know he loves.

He feels you tighten around him.

“There you are,” he says, his face pressed to the side of yours, “show me, babygirl. Show me how much you missed me.”

You scream into the pillows, muscles contracting.

You are burning, you are twisting so he has to hold you still.

He slams into you, erratic, and then rises up, one hard pump so deep that you feel it in your whole weightless body, then another and another. He calls your name as he cums.

It sounds like need, like release, and you could listen to that sound over and over till the day you die.

He lets his considerable weight rest on you for a moment, then shifts to his side and pulls you with him. You lie curled inside the frame of his body, breathing hard as he softens slightly inside you.

He nuzzles your neck and you feel like you might be on the verge of tears.

“Oh, Flip,” you say and he kisses your shoulder, pulls out of you so you can turn your body into his.

You stay that way for a long time, breathing the shared air of the cocoon you've made for yourselves.

You could stay like that forever but you did leave that pot on the stove and you are hungry and you know he has to be too, what with all those awful bologna sandwiches he makes for himself when you're away.

“Gotta check dinner,” you tell him and kiss the line of his jaw as you pull away.

You walk to the kitchen on shaky legs and stir the pot, turning off the gas.

When you come back, he is sitting on the end of the bed.

“Honey?”

He looks up at you and you pause in the doorway. Something is wrong. He looks nervous. Flips never looks nervous.

“You know, you saved me that night at Patty's,” he tells you and it seems jarring to bring that up now.

You pause before you answer.

“You saved me at the airfield, and at the cross burning.” Your voice is wary. You are scared of whatever is coming.

He nods, looks at his fist. He is holding something.

“So I figure you owe me a life,” he says and rubs at the back of his neck.

“Flip?”

He rises from the bed, moves to stand in front of you. He looks like he might be sick. You reach out a hand to check his forehead but he is too quick for you.

He drops to one knee.

Your stomach drops with him.

He holds up a ring, a simple band, three sparkling diamonds you know he must have spent some time choosing. Your heart aches with the indecision he must have had picking this particular ring. How he must have wondered whether it would be the one you would like.

Your mouth opens. You cannot feel any part of your body. Like you're floating. Like you're finally anchored.

“Babygirl? I love you. You know that...” his stare is so intense that the rest of the room disappears.

“Be my wife.”

Somehow you are on your knees. When did that happen?

You are kissing his face, his lips, his jaw, his neck. You will never stop kissing him.

He pulls your face away from his, holds it still while he studies you.

“That a yes?”

“Yes!” your voice is too high. You are struggling not to bounce, not to leap, not to explode.

He slides the ring onto your finger.

“OK, now we're a family,” he tells you and it is everything, everything you have ever wanted and so, so much more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the hits, the really inciteful comments and kudos on this fic. It is so, so appreciated.  
> I have literally just realised that I used an actual stand-in name rather than the standard format of (Y/N) so I'm gonna go back and change that... maybe tomorrow when I drink this bottle of (TM) Lock-down Relief Wine!
> 
> Thanks again and please come say hi on Twitter @denzerwriter

**Author's Note:**

> This was my first completed fic and I have a soft spot for it. Please be kind, I know I did loads of stuff wrong - especially misunderstanding the (Y/N) convention. I'll fix it eventually, I swear! :-)  
> Come remind me of all the things I say I'll get around to on Twitter @denzerwriter


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